Ever After
by bloodtallow
Summary: Five years after the Blight has ended, a new danger threatens Ferelden, and it's up to King Alistair Theirin to end the threat. With or without the help of the Hero of Ferelden.
1. Time

Nineteen, no, twenty hours. But it might just as well have been a week, or a month. He had seen nothing but the walls of the antechamber, heard nothing but the crackling fire, for what could have been an eternity.

Did all fathers feel like this? And then he corrected himself. All second-time fathers, that is. Though to be fair, this was the first child he had wanted to father.

He continued his measured pacing about the room. Maker, but this was worse than fighting darkspawn. At least during the Blight his enemy was one he could see. What was his enemy here? Time? Boredom? Anxiety? He had no idea how long this was supposed to take, but to hear so little for so interminably long...

It must have been five or six hours ago now that the midwife had asked for fresh linens and more hot water. Alistair had leapt to supply them for her - anything to keep him from the endless pacing about the room, and to give him some hint as to how things fared. But in response to his questions, the midwife had said only that Anora was tired, but well enough, considering.

And then she had returned to the birthing chamber and he was left alone again. He sighed.

_At this point I'd almost rather fight the Archdemon again than wait here another hour._

He made another restless circuit of the room and then paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob.

What could they do to him? He was the king of Ferelden, after all, and who in Thedas had the right to keep him out of his own child's birthing chamber? Forget the silly superstitions and Eamon's over-protective coddling. He wouldn't let them keep him away any longer.

He turned the knob, and then stopped.

Anora had told him to wait outside.

After five years of marriage, and heavy with child, she was still as self possessed as ever. And though time had brought them closer than he would ever have guessed, he could count on one hand the number of times she had allowed him to see the side of her that wasn't completely in command of herself and her surroundings.

Well, tonight, she would simply have to make an exception.

Smiling as he pictured Anora's disapproving yet happy face, he opened the door and walked up the hall toward the royal quarters.

One of the midwife's attendants was coming out of the chamber – a young elf with her light brown hair cropped short. She was new to the palace, or he had simply not seen her before, but when Alistair approached she bobbed a nervous curtsey before babbling, "Y-your Majesty, p-please, I-I'm so..."

Something about her tone sent a shiver down his spine.

"It's all right," he answered automatically, nodding to the attendant, though he had no idea what he was comforting her for, "I'm sure it's—".

It suddenly occurred to him what was wrong. Though the chamber door was half open, the rooms beyond were still and silent. No voices, no laughter, no crying.

Heart pounding, he pushed the door open.

The midwife was exiting the bedroom, her arms filled with bed sheets and pillows. Upon seeing Alistair, her eyebrows knit in disapproval, but she did not try to hide the linens from him. Linens stained with...

_That's a lot of blood. It couldn't all be Anora's, could it?_

"Your Majesty," the midwife said, her voice soft. Alistair remembered when Anora had brought her into the palace, having made another of her unilateral decisions. She was from Highever, or at least he thought she had said so at the time, though he couldn't remember her name, now. His head buzzed, as though he were standing too close to a hornets' nest, and he resisted the impulse to shake it.

"Is the Queen...?" He kept his voice soft, in case Anora was sleeping.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty. The Queen is dead."

The buzzing grew louder, and for a moment he wondered if he'd heard her right.

_What?_ The word formed on his lips, but suddenly he had no voice to speak it. She couldn't have said what he thought he'd heard. She must have meant...

There was only one way to find out. Slowly, as though moving underwater, he entered the bedroom.

Anora lay in her bed as though she slept. Her face, drawn with the pains of labor when last he had seen it, was peaceful now, her mouth smiling slightly as though she lay in some happy dream.

_But her hands are so cold._

It was as if the entire room was just a painting, some lifeless, frozen moment in time. Or, rather, as though he were looking at some strange copy of the world he knew – some warped reflection, where some other queen lay dead in some other room. He found himself hopefully tracing the outline of her face, as if to find some flaw or subtle change that would show him he was dreaming.

But no, it was she, for he knew every feature of her face, remembered every hair of her head.

Quietly, Alistair knelt before Anora, and kissed her brow.

"May you find peace in the Maker, my love," he whispered. "And—" For a moment he lost his voice again, and had to clear his throat, a strange, alien sound against all the stillness.

"May Andraste draw your soul to heaven, and may you find it glorious."

He drew the linen shroud over her face, gently touching the pale cheek one last time, and resting a hand upon her hair for one final moment.

He didn't know what else to say or do. He shook his head, remembering their last conversation, over breakfast yesterday. Anora had been tired and nauseated, and he had managed to convince her to rest with him awhile on the veranda, and even to submit to a foot rub, before she had gone, bold-faced and alone into a five-hour negotiation session with some visiting Orlesian emissaries.

And what had been his last words to her? "Goodbye, my queen, I'll always love you" seemed a preposterous thing to say after breakfast, but now he found himself wishing he had said so, regardless of time or seeming impropriety. Instead, he had called after her to remember to inquire after Empress Celene's nephew's health, or dog, or some other unimportant trifle. Such a stupid, careless request.

He felt suddenly empty, as though by entering the room he had become trapped by its silence. Without looking, he sank to the floor, slumped against the bed and rested his head in his hands.

"Your Majesty?"

The voice startled him, breaking the stillness like a hammer.

"Would you like to see your daughter now?"


	2. Brown Eyes

The other bedroom in the royal quarters was quiet, but unlike Anora's bedchamber it was at least not shrouded in cold and shadow. The fire was burning brightly here, casting a warm glow on the faces of the assembled birthing attendants, and on Arl Eamon, who was holding a bundle in his arms.

"Ah, good," Eamon said softly as he approached, "I'm glad you're here. She's just beginning to wake."

And without another word, and before Alistair could protest, Eamon pushed the bundle into his hands.

Maker's breath, she was small. He held her as gently as he could, like a phylactery made of crystal, suddenly terrified she might break if he allowed his arms to enfold her with any of the relief he now felt.

"It's all right Alistair," Eamon said, "she isn't going to disappear on you."

At Eamon's soft words, Alistair raised his head, and suddenly the numbness he had felt began to thaw like ice above a running stream. Legs suddenly weak, he sank into a nearby chair. Eamon gripped his shoulder gently.

"I'm sorry."

"Eamon—" he started, unsure what to say, but before he could get any further someone touched his chin.

He looked down. A pair of nut-brown eyes were staring at him, from a smiling face. His daughter was awake, squirming gently in her blankets, looking for all the world like a happy, healthy baby.

_She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen._

He couldn't utter a word. He could only look down at her like a man waking up from a dream, still too sleep-filled to remember how to move or speak.

But after a few minutes, and another beautiful smile, Alistair was able to relax enough to get a closer look at his daughter. Her hair was fair, covering her head in like a downy and slightly rumpled halo. Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled, and her hands were the most perfect hands he could ever have imagined. Now that she was awake, she shifted and moved in his arms, and even gave him a kick as she tested her limbs.

"Well, like mother like daughter, it seems," Eamon said, with a gentle chuckle.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Alistair said, a sudden touch of pride painting a brief smile upon his face.

He gazed down at the baby in his arms, feeling as though once again tonight time was standing still. But this time, he was content to let it stay that way.

"Your Majesty?" The elven attendant he had met in the hall had returned, again bobbing her nervous curtsey.

"P-please, Your Majesty, I should take the princess to her nurse. If she is awake, s-she may be hungry."

"What is your name?" He asked, and the attendant jumped nervously.

"I-it's N-Nelys, Your Majesty. I-I'm sorry—"

"It's all right, Nelys," he said, carefully placing his child into her arms, "it's going to be all right."

He watched his daughter being conducted away by the procession of attendants.

"Nelys?"

The elf halted, looking terrified at being addressed twice by name in such quick succession.

"Would you please let me see her again, once..." he gestured awkwardly, but Nelys nodded.

"Of... of course, Your Majesty."

He watched them go, feeling a strange mixture of pain and happiness, as though the two emotions were matched evenly like twin draughts taken from the same cup. For a moment he let his gaze wander over the smoldering logs on the fire.

"Alistair?" Eamon's voice was gentle, but held a firmness that had not been present when Alistair had entered the room.

"While you were busy today a message came from Amaranthine. The usual skirmishes in the Wilds have escalated, and the Warden Lieutenant fears that we may have an invasion force on our hands."

"They need reinforcements?" He did not even need to ask the question. The Lieutenant would never have alerted him if the situation were not dire.

"Without more troops, they will be unable to hold the line."

Alistair sighed. Darkspawn. Maker, but they had the worst timing.

"Very well, Eamon. Send word to the garrison commanders. We will leave tomorrow, at first light."

"Of course." Eamon nodded, and moved to the door, then turned back.

"With the coming battle, I believe that Denerim is the safest place for the child."

Alistair nodded. Of course it was, especially with the new defenses he had built since the Blight.

"Isolde and I will look after her."

"Of course. I know she will be well cared for." He tried to bite back his disappointment. It was ridiculous, foolhardy, to even think about trying to combine his duties as a father to a newborn daughter, and his sworn oath to defend Ferelden.

And yet, despite the events of the last twenty-four hours, there was a part of him that would have preferred to stay, to sit, perhaps forever, in the chair next to the fire, holding his daughter in his arms. If Anora were here, it would make his departure easier. Brow furrowing, he turned to the fire again, trying to lose himself in its glow.

"Eamon?" A sudden thought tore him from his reverie.

"Yes?" The arl turned back from the door, clearly taking Alistair's silence as the end of their conversation.

"I will choose her name."

"As you wish." Eamon nodded. For a moment he looked as might say something else. The he nodded again, and left, shutting the door silently behind him.

Alistair returned to the fireside chain and sat down, gazing for long moments at the shadows on the hearth.

"Your Majesty?"

Nelys had returned, stepping softly so as not to wake the sleeping baby in her arms.

"She fell asleep again, but I know you wished to see her. I-I'm sorry..."

"It's all right, Nelys," he said gently, taking his daughter again and settling the babe in his arms. It was easier to hold her the second time, as though his arms were already growing accustomed to her weight.

"Thank you for bringing her to me."

"Your Majesty." Nelys curtseyed again, and left.

Tenderly, Alistair traced the golden halo of her hair. His daughter. With a ferventness he had not possessed in what felt like a lifetime, he held her close, trying to memorize every detail of her face and outstretched hands.

"Welcome to the world, my Wynne," he whispered to her softly.


	3. Leaving

Alistair awoke before dawn. In the pale silver light from the chamber windows, he sat up and leaned over to peer into the bassinet that stood beside the bed.

She was still there, sleeping peacefully, hands curled about her blankets and a gentle smile upon her face.

He smiled, relieved, as he realized that despite Eamon's words the night before, some part of him had been expecting her to disappear, as though everything about her had been some strange dream.

_Wynne._

He dared not whisper her name, for he didn't want to wake her. It was hard enough knowing that he had to leave her, without her waking up to see him go.

As quietly as he could, he rose and dressed. It had been a long time since he had worn his full battle armor, but after a few minor adjustments he slipped into it as easily as if he had worn it just yesterday.

Before pulling on his gauntlets, Alistair returned to the bassinet and gently touched Wynne's cheek. Then, with a sigh, he crept to the door.

Someone was sleeping in a chair outside the chamber.

"Nelys?" Gently, he touched her shoulder. She started, looking about her wildly.

"Y-Your Majesty! I-I'm sorry. I didn't m-mean to fall asleep."

"It's all right, Nelys," he repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. "I'm sure everyone is still tired after last night. I know I still am." He smiled grimly.

"W-was there something you required, Your Majesty?"

"Only for you to continue to look after the princess. I leave shortly, and will be gone for..." He paused, considering. Truth be told, he didn't know how long. However long it took to push the darkspawn back, he supposed, though he kept that thought to himself.

"Well, I will be gone for some time... Would you ensure that the arl and arlessa have everything they need to see to her happiness while I am gone?"

"Of-of course, Your Majesty, but the midwife..."

"I would prefer that you tend to her, please." He could not explain why he trusted the elf maid. Perhaps it had been the gentleness with which she had ministered to Wynne last night, despite her halting speech and nervous manner. Regardless, he felt more at ease knowing Eamon would have another pair of hands ready to assist him.

"Of course..." Nelys nodded again, bobbed her strange curtsey, and hurried into the bedchamber to look after her charge.

Alistair continued down the hallway to Eamon's room and knocked gently. There was a brief pause, then Eamon emerged, straightening his collar.

"We'll see you back soon, I trust," the older man gripped Alistair's hand firmly, as though imparting a request instead of a wish.

"As soon as I can ensure that Amaranthine is safe. But Eamon, if something happens... I want you to give her this."

He fumbled for a moment, finally taking off his gauntlets so that he could remove the fine chain from about his neck. His mother's pendant shimmered as it met the dawn light, and for a moment Alistair held it in his hands, considering.

_Suppose I never make it back. Suppose this is all she ever has to remember..._

He thrust the thought away, grimacing, and pressed the pendant into Eamon's hands.

"If the time comes, I will." Eamon's face darkened. "But Maker preserve us, I hope I never have to."

#

The general of the foot soldiers of the crown sat alone in the garrison dining room. The table in front of him was littered with half-empty plates and overturned bottles. As Alistair entered, he drained his tankard, took a last bite of what appeared to be a mostly-devoured nug, and stood, pulling the king into a hug.

"I hear last night was a long one. Sodding nug-runners, I never thought—" The dwarf's voice broke off, and he shook his head. Alistair nodded, knowing what his friend was trying to say.

"Thank you, Oghren."

The dwarf gave him a sad smile. Then, as though remembering something, he began rummaging in a backpack on the dining table.

"Here," he said after a moment. "It may not be the best time to give it to you, but I got it as a baby present."

Alistair looked at the metal flask in Oghren's hands. Even stoppered, he could smell the nostril-cleaning fumes of some strange liquor.

"Okay, you got me. That isn't really a baby present, is it?"

The dwarf grinned.

"If you have to ask, you must know even less about babies than I thought. Trust me, you're gonna need it. When Felsi had Owen I drank a pint every day. It got me through the little nug-duster's teething. Well, that, and some chainmail socks."

He couldn't help it. Alistair laughed, trying to picture his friend – the stalwart slayer of darkspawn and a general of his army – suffering through his young son's penchant for biting ankles. The smile felt good on his tired face, and for a moment the two friends stood still, enjoying the easy silence.

"Anyway," Oghren said finally, "we're ready to march on your order."

"Good. Let us be off then."

Together, they emerged from the garrison building onto the broad, sundrenched training fields to greet the assembled army.

In all the times he had seen them, the crown's foot soldiers had seemed a tough and dedicated bunch, though Alistair would expect no less from those serving under Oghren's watchful eye. Many of the older soldiers had served during the siege of Denerim, though the dwarven general's strange charisma had attracted many new recruits in the years since the war. With the expansion of the city's Alienage district, many elves had joined the army, proving themselves worthy additions to the ranks. And with the improved relations between Orzammar and the surface, there were even some dwarves to be seen here and there among the eager faces.

The good-natured din of expectant soldiers hushed as they approached. Though he had grown accustomed to, if not accepting of every eye following him while out in public, Alistair suddenly felt overwhelmed at the thought of addressing their eager faces. He stood for a moment before the assembled troops, trying to get his thoughts into some kind of order. It was not only customary for the king to address troops before battle, it was an expected honor, and one he had performed before, and gladly. But today... the words just wouldn't come.

As though sensing his very thoughts, Oghren moved easily forward, taking a central position before the soldiers.

"You know the routine," the dwarf grumbled, pacing along the ranks. "Ferelden's in trouble and it's up to us to fix it. It seems those Wardens have got a bigger hassle on their hands than they'd like, and they've asked us for help. So the sooner we get out there and kill those darkspawn, the sooner we can get down to the more important stuff, like ale and food!"

It had to be the strangest rallying speech Alistair had ever heard. For a moment he didn't know whether to shake his head or laugh aloud. Then he realized that while Oghren had been speaking, every single soldier on the training field had straightened, until all were attentive, watching and waiting, ready for their commands.

Looking into the eyes of those assembled, he could read no fear on their faces, only a fierce-burning pride. He smiled as Oghren unhooked the dwarven-made axe from his back and brandished it before his riveted soldiers.

"Let's show them our hearts," the dwarf growled, his voice growing to a roar as every soldier of the crown cried with him, "and then show them theirs!"

And they were off, making good time along the northern road to Amaranthine.


	4. Siege

The terrain grew rougher as they approached Amaranthine, with trees and hillocks camouflaging both the grey walls of Vigil's Keep, and the white-capped ocean beyond. The sky had darkened as afternoon slipped into evening, but as the army crested the last hill before the keep, it seemed to Alistair that the darkness was more oppressive than that of the coming night. It was as though a veil had been drawn across the fading sun. When the trees finally cleared, he saw why.

Vigil's Keep was burning. Smoking corpses of darkspawn and Wardens dotted the battlefield, staining the grass red with blood. The keep gates were shattered, a ruined mess of splintered wood and warped iron. From the buildings and towers of the inner courtyard, fires blazed, consuming everything but the stone itself. Screams echoed off the blasted stone of the keep like a horde of banshees feasting on the tumult.

_Andraste's blood, we have to get in there._

He turned to Oghren, reading the same dismay on the dwarf's face that he felt on his own. Together, king and general bellowed for the charge and the army rushed toward the keep.

Most of the darkspawn were already inside, and any stragglers had clearly not expected their approach. Working in tandem, Alistair and Oghren led the way across the battlefield, cutting down genlocks and hurlocks mechanically, their weapons timed so perfectly it appeared that sword, shield and axe were just flashing cogs in a well-oiled machine.

But as they drew closer to the keep, Alistair flinched, his sword losing its momentum, his senses reeling. They had used magic to get the gate open. He could feel it on his skin, taste it in the air. The stones around the gateway were cracked and blackened, and the earth at his feet was scorched. No mere fireball had done this – this was the work of a powerful magician.

From the other side of the wreckage, he heard the familiar, crackling build-up of arcane energy, and the guttural snarl of a darkspawn mage. He charged forward, downing a surprised genlock with one quick slash of his sword, before pivoting and striking out with his shield three times in an overpowering move against the emissary. The magical energy fizzled, and he stepped past quickly, hearing Oghren move in for the killing blow behind him.

Broken stone and burning wreckage littered the inner courtyard, culminating in a massive pile of twisted bodies and charred wood. Whatever blast had broken through the front gates had clearly taken out most of the Wardens with it. Bedraggled survivors were scattered everywhere, fighting mobs of darkspawn, but without anywhere to run, most were swiftly being overwhelmed.

Alistair roared as anger swept over him. Not again. He would not lose the Wardens again. Maker, he would find every last one of them if he had to walk through the fire himself. He turned to his army.

"Split into squadrons here. Find every Warden you can. Save the keep!"

The soldiers broke off immediately into teams, fanning out into the courtyard.

Alistair concentrated, sifting through his muddied senses to find his target – the head of the onslaught. Vigil's Tower – the highest point of the keep. The blackened snarl of tainted magic radiated from there like a cloud of poison.

With Oghren beside him, he made his way to the tower.

"Bloody nug-lickers!" Oghren swore as they entered.

Two Wardens lay just inside the tower door, their bodies crumpled, their armor warped with the clear effects of a massive magical discharge.

Cursing, Alistair knelt to check their bodies for a pulse, when an explosion rocked the tower.

Bile rising in his throat, he hurried up the tower's spiral staircase, with Oghren at his heels.

Both his Warden senses and his templar training were broadcasting very clearly that something here was very wrong. It wasn't just the darkspawn taint he was feeling, it was something stronger – a twisting sense of corruption he had never sensed before. He could hear another spell sizzle through the air above them, and a scream rang out against the stone walls.

Half way up the tower the staircase widened, revealing a barracks room with two more Wardens, lying unconscious and bleeding from whatever spells the darkspawn had unleashed.

"Oghren," Alistair called, his throat hoarse, "help them, please." Then he turned and lunged up the stairs.

_I have to stop it, before it kills anyone else._

He hurried up the twisting spiral, thrusting away the sense of dizziness, and the choking haze of tainted magic. Finally, the staircase widened again, and he burst into the top room of the tower.

There were two figures silhouetted in the glow of the keep fires. One, whom he recognized as a Warden, lay gasping on the floor. The other was the largest hurlock he had ever seen. It was a giant, so tall it nearly scraped the tower ceiling with its horned helmet. In one massive hand, it gripped a black saw-blade, stained with blood. On its other arm it bore a heavy metal shield, and it was the shield which it had clearly just used to knock the Warden to the ground. Snarling, the beast drew closer to its prey, raised its sword hand and barked one guttural word.

Fire shot down the length of the darkspawn's sword, swirling with a deadly light as the hurlock took one final step toward the prone Warden.

Without pausing to think, Alistair cried aloud the words learned during his templar training, unleashing a bolt of energy at the towering hurlock. The darkspawn raised its shield, deflecting the bolt, but the spell had at least diverted attention away from the other Warden. Alistair charged, throwing his rage into a fierce barrage of shield blows which knocked the hurlock back against the tower wall. But the beast growled in fury, emitting another guttural cry, and suddenly a burst of crackling energy knocked Alistair backwards through the air.

He landed heavily against the opposite wall, ears ringing and vision blurry. From across the room, the hurlock began chanting, an eldritch light dancing across the blade in its hands. Quickly, Alistair rolled to the side, as a black bolt of energy sizzled overhead and smashed into the wall, cracking the stone. Then, before the creature could cast any more spells, he charged once more, lashing out with his shield and driving his sword into the hurlock's chest.

As the beast gurgled and seized before him, Alistair closed his eyes and concentrated, purging the last of the tainted magic from the room.

Then he turned to the Warden, and a sudden wave of relief flooded him as the man opened his eyes.

"It's good to see you alive, Lieutenant," he said, hurrying forward to take the other man's arm.

"I am happy to say the same, Your Majesty," the Warden replied, grimacing as Alistair helped him off the stone floor.

"It seems you got here just in time. Another moment and he would have taken it."

"Taken what?" Alistair asked, but before his companion could respond, a cry of shock filled the chamber.

"By the tits of my ancestors!"

Oghren stood in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the emissary's corpse. In another moment he was on his knees, scrubbing at the ash-blackened shield with his gauntleted hands.

"That's Branka's shield!"


	5. A Tevinter Artifact

Warden Lieutenant Simon, formerly of the esteemed Lesante family of Orlais, paced about the room. The Lieutenant was not a tall man, but the severity of his chiseled features, and the menacing flash of his steel-grey eyes were said to not only strike fear into the hearts of the new Warden recruits, but into the heart of every darkspawn that dared poke its head above the surface of Ferelden. Alistair had known Simon long enough, however, to learn that behind his scowl and businesslike demeanor, there lurked a fiery noble son of Orlais, who relished the finer things life had to offer, and who knew how to find enjoyment enough to combat the usual grimness that came with being a Warden.

Not that there was much enjoyment to be had in Amaranthine right now.

From the top of Vigil's Tower, Alistair watched the crown's foot soldiers begin the arduous task of reclaiming the keep. Most of the fires had been doused, but the smells of smoke and cinders and burning flesh still pervaded the air. Search parties had been sent throughout the keep, only to return, their arms laden with the bodies of the dead, reporting that none had survived the fires and the magical onslaught of the darkspawn attack. All told, only six Wardens, and the Warden Lieutenant, were still alive.

Six survivors out of thirty new recruits. All lost, the Lieutenant was telling him, because of the small wrapped bundle Simon held in his hands.

Simon placed the bundle on a rickety table - the only piece of furniture in the room that hadn't been blasted to pieces by the darkspawn's spells. Slowly, he peeled off the layers of protective cloth, and as he did so, the room grew lighter, as though a lamp had just been lit in the tower. A brilliant stone sat upon the table, casting a light so bright that it seemed as though all shadows of the evening vanished before its glow. Runes had been carved on its surface in a spiral, circling a single depression, like the mark made by a sculptor's thumb, in the stone's center.

"What is it?" Alistair asked, peering at the glowing stone until its brightness sent silver flashes burning across his vision. He closed his eyes against the brilliance. Maker, he didn't even have to look at the stone to feel its power. Magic emanated from it like heat from a bonfire, prickling the hairs on his neck and arms, and setting his templar senses on edge.

"We have no idea," The Warden Lieutenant replied. "But we know they want it. Badly. One of my scouts uncovered it in an old Tevinter ruin near the Brecilian Forest. And," he looked knowingly into Alistair's face, "I had intended to determine what it was, before I sent word to Denerim to trouble you about it."

"I commend your bravery, Simon, but whatever this is, the darkspawn clearly know more about it than we do. I don't think this was just another raid."

"Nor do I," Oghren rumbled from the corner.

Alistair turned to his friend. The dwarf had been sitting for the better part of the last hour clutching the hurlock's shield in his hands, as though trying to convince himself it really existed. Beneath the blood and soot, Alistair could see the faded icon of Branka's house, and it was at this symbol that Oghren stared, eyes dark and grim.

A glowing stone and a dwarven shield. Indeed, not just any shield, but one belonging to a Paragon, and to Oghren's ex-wife. A darkspawn attack led by the strongest emissary he had ever faced, an attack so powerful it had almost wiped out Amaranthine in a single blow. Alistair shook his head, trying to clear away some of the buzzing questions that raced across his mind. He turned back to Simon and the glowing stone on the table.

"Whatever this is, it can't stay at Vigil's Keep," he said after a moment. "We need answers, and until we get them, we have to keep this hidden from the horde's sight."

Simon nodded gravely before wrapping the stone back into the heavy cloth bundle. Gradually the light that had filled the room dimmed, though Alistair could still feel the pulse of magical energy coming from the stone, even blanketed as it was. Trying to quell the reluctance brought on by his years of templar training, he approached the table and picked up the stone. Then he gasped reflexively, feeling the power that pushed at his skin, making his heart quicken its beat. He felt like he was holding a lightning rod of pure lyrium.

A pair of hands took the stone roughly from his grasp. Oghren was shaking his head, looking up at Alistair.

"I know where you're going," Oghren said simply. "And I'm coming along, if only to keep your head from exploding from holding this rock too long." He turned on his heel, stooped to pick up Branka's shield, and began walking down the tower steps, muttering to himself. Alistair couldn't help but smile grimly, hearing the dwarf grumble about "sodding ex-templars who should know enough to leave the heavy lifting to the dwarves."

He turned to Simon, feeling his senses calm now that Oghren was holding the stone.

"Very well. Lieutenant, I leave the army in your care, to aid in the restoration of the Keep. It seems we're off to the Circle."

#

They left Vigil's Keep as the funeral was beginning. The courtyard was filled with wreckage anyway, and the army had turned the twisted wood of the buildings and shattered gates into funeral pyres, their flames illuminating the broken stone walls in a harsh light. The soldiers of the crown stood to attention, their faces grim, as Lieutenant Simon and the Wardens performed the rites of the dead. There were no priests among the Ferelden Wardens, but Simon had been raised by a pious aunt in Val Royeaux, and led the soldiers in the chant. Alistair stood, his gaze lost upon the flames, answering the opening invocations to the Maker numbly.

_They're dead and it's my fault._ There was nothing else to say.

He turned, and began walking toward to the keep's broken gateway. The rest of the army would remain in Amaranthine, bolstering the shattered forces of the Wardens and guarding against further darkspawn incursions. His own ten-man squadron, the royal detachment, would be accompanying Alistair and Oghren to the Circle.

They cut through the Coastlands on foot, taking on horses in Highever, stopping for only a brief night's rest and dinner.

The ride to the Tower of Magi was uneventful, with no sign of darkspawn. As though the attack at Vigil's Keep had been the last surging rush, a suicidal tide of desperation, the darkspawn seemed to have retreated back below ground, and no one was sad to see them go.

_I just wish we could have turned them back sooner._ He focused grimly on the road in front of him, the miles between Vigil's Keep and Lake Calenhad numbing his body and mind.

As it always did when he drew near it, the Tower's magic made his templar senses tingle, like breathing pepper in a busy kitchen. He had commissioned workers to repair this end of the Imperial Highway a year ago, and now Alistair and his company rode across the dark waters of Lake Calenhad, stabling their horses in the long shed outside the Tower's great double doors.

Inside the Tower the air smelled like burnt lyrium, the intensity of the fragrance making a few of his soldiers sneeze.

"Just like shoving a stick of ore up your butt, eh?" Oghren chuckled as they entered, eliciting an answering guffaw from one of the younger lieutenants. Alistair allowed himself a smile, as the dwarf's blunt humor chipped away at the mask he had forced himself to wear since leaving Amaranthine.

There were only a few templars still in service at the Tower. After the Blight the Circle had claimed its independence from the Chantry, expelling most of the templars and priests serving within the Tower. The two waiting here in the entrance hall were grey-haired men, probably too old to have families to return to after the dissolution of their order.

_Or too addicted to lyrium to want to leave_, Alistair thought grimly, thanking the Maker for the thousandth time that he had never taken that final step to become a templar.

The older, and therefore probably senior of the two templars briefly approached then, bowing as deeply as his heavy armor allowed, before leaving to announce the Tower's visitors.

The inner doors had barely closed again behind him when a tall woman emerged from the chambers beyond, the red of her hair a vivid contrast to the jade green silk of her mage robes. She glided easily across the stone hall, and bowed low before Alistair.

"Greetings, Your Majesty. I am First Enchanter Petra. How may the Circle be of aid to the crown?"

"I remember you," Alistair blurted, before he remembered that it was hardly kingly to say so, "you were in the attack on the Tower, standing guard over the children."

She smiled brightly.

"Indeed I was, Your Majesty, and the Circle is eternally grateful to you and to the Wardens for your aid."

"Is Irving no longer in service at the Tower?" He kept the question light, intending no disrespect to Petra's sudden and unexpected appearance.

"Irving retired and took leave to go to Minrathous, just two weeks ago in fact. My official notice of replacement is still standing on my desk, waiting to be sent to Denerim, I'm afraid." Petra shrugged apologetically. "But, if you would be so good as to follow me, I'd be more than happy to help with whatever you need."

Alistair gave his soldiers leave to explore the Tower as they wished, before following Petra through the apprentice quarters and up the stairs to the mage dormitory, and the traditional office of the First Enchanter.

Oghren had transferred the stone from its bundle of blankets into a wooden box, and it was this which the dwarf placed on Petra's desk.

"Maker!" Petra whispered as Alistair opened the box. She gazed at the stone, her mouth open in surprise.

"May I?" She asked, stretching her hands out to touch the glowing stone.

At Alistair's nod, Petra wrapped her hands about the stone, gently lifting it from the box. She gasped softly, and Alistair knew that she must be feeling the same surge of energy his own magic-attuned senses had encountered. But after a moment, the First Enchanter's expression turned from awe to intrigue. Slowly, she ran her fingers along the lines of runes, before placing the stone almost reverently back in its box.

"Rarely have I felt such power. Where did you discover this, Your Majesty?"

"One of the Grey Wardens found it in a Tevinter ruin."

"Really?" Petra said, sounding surprised. "But this artifact isn't Tevinter. It's elvish."

"Elvish? Are you sure?"

"Indeed. And if the signs upon it are any indication, it's very old. Unfortunately, that's about all I can tell you about it. I'm afraid that the Tower libraries do not have many records from the age of Arlathan."

"So you have no idea why the darkspawn would be so eager to get their hands on it?"

"Darkspawn? No, I can't think of any reason, though I must admit, I have very little experience in such matters." She smiled at him apologetically.

"Well," Oghren grumbled, "if it's got the Circle flummoxed, it might be time to look higher up the tree, eh, no offense, ma'am," he nodded respectfully at Petra. "Perhaps if the War--"

"Thank you, but that's impossible," Alistair said, cutting off his friend more abruptly than he meant to. He took another look at the strange, glimmering stone, then closed his eyes.

_It's not impossible. It's just the last thing I ever thought I'd have to do._

"Senior Enchanter," he said after a moment, trying to keep his voice level, "would the Circle be willing to house this artifact here in the Tower?"

Amidst the pulsing throb of magic which pervaded the Tower, there might be enough camouflage to disguise the stone. At least, until he could find an answer.


	6. The Rose

Alistair sat at the simple desk in the Tower's guest room. It was late... how late, he didn't know, but the moon had risen high while he'd been sitting, and Oghren's snores were resonating from the chamber next door. Even through the walls, he could hear the dwarf mumbling in his sleep - something about ale and brontos.

He sighed and looked again at the parchment before him. There were no words yet, but he had managed to create some interesting ink blots along the edges. He crumpled the parchment and searched for a fresh sheet, before abandoning the desk to go stand before the fire. All night he had tried to get his thoughts into order, to force his writing to assume the diplomatic tone it did when he wrote to the dwarves, or the Chantry, or the Empress of Orlais.

But to do that now was impossible, not when despite all the distance which time and duty and being king had placed between them, he couldn't remember the woman who slew the Archdemon any other way than when they last spoke.

#

Her room was in disarray. Books and parchment, old maps and ink-stained quills littered the table or lay in unorganized piles on the floor. The wardrobe, which had once held her clothes, was almost empty, as Neria Surana, Hero of Ferelden, folded the last of her mage robes into her backpack.

"Are you packing?" The words came out more abruptly than he meant them to, and Alistair bit his tongue as a flicker of anger crossed her face.

"I should think that would be obvious, Your Majesty," she said after drawing a breath, clearly trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

She scanned the unkempt piles of books and papers and selected one or two to place in the top of her pack, keeping her back to him, avoiding his gaze.

"No, I mean why are you packing?" he tried again, his voice softer this time.

"Because I am leaving."

_Maker, it's like talking to Sten_. Alistair bit back his retort.

"But...I thought you agreed to command the Wardens, to rebuild the order. I thought you would stay in Amaranthine."

"Well, plans change, don't they?" She checked the wardrobe for a missing cloak, found it, and wrapped it hastily around her shoulders, raising the hood to cover her pointed ears. She still wouldn't look at him.

"Ye-es," he said, considering, "but I never thought that that _particular_ plan would."

"There are many things I thought would never change," she whispered, "but they have."

He moved forward, close enough to touch her, his brow furrowing at the chaos between them. _I never meant it to be this way._

"Then where will you go?"

"Alistair—" she turned her face upward to look at him, tears sparkling in her eyes. She shook her head. "What am I supposed to say?"

"Say you'll stay..." he tried to keep his tone light and friendly. "I don't want you to leave."

"Don't you _shemlen_ have a saying about that? About having your cake and eating it too?" Shemlen. He'd heard her use the word before, but she'd never called him so by name. She spat the words like a curse, rage painted clearly on her face, like blood from a battle.

"I will not stay here in the shadows, watching you live a life I cannot share."

"Neria—"

She bent to collect her things. The strap of her pack caught on her staff, sending the magical weapon clattering to the floor. As he had many times before, Alistair knelt to pick it up for her.

"Don't!" Neria snapped, her entire face overcome with fury. Her fingers sparkled with bright blue mage fire, as they always did when she was extremely upset or angry. "Don't touch it." She wrenched the staff from his grasp and walked to the door.

"I need nothing from you, Your Majesty, least of all your help."

And she left, slamming the door behind her.

He stood in the sudden silence of the room, looking about him, as though part of him hoped to find some excuse - something she had forgotten to pack, some important item left behind that she couldn't leave without. A sudden flash of red on the drab chamber bedclothes caught his eye.

A crushed rose lay on the pillow, its petals bleeding onto the floor.

#

"Nug got your tongue?"

Oghren stood in the doorway, a metal flask in his hand.

"Yes, actually," Alistair looked at the dwarf, smiling ruefully, "I don't suppose you have any advice on how to write a letter you've been meaning to write for five years?"

"Hah! No, but I've got some boot grease here, if it'll help." He took a sip from his flask.

"Oghren... does it ever get any easier?"

The dwarf smiled grimly.

"You're asking me? My wife left me high and dry to go plumb the Deep Roads with a watery tart. She tried to kill me when I followed her, and when we tried to knock some sense into her soft skull, she took a long jump down a short shaft. And now," Oghren took a long drink from his flask, "I have to go back to Orzammar and pick up the pieces she left behind."

"I'm sorry," Alistair said, turning to his friend. "I didn't mean..."

"Ahh, it's all right. It's not your fault. And I wouldn't go back now. At least Felsi knows which side the rock crumbles on."

He passed the flask, and Alistair gratefully took a sip, which turned quickly into a gulp.

"I just... never thought..."

"Never thought we'd need her to return, or never thought you'd have to be the one to ask her back?"

He snorted, and took another, stronger-smelling flask from his belt.

"Let me ask you this: in five years, why haven't you named another Warden Commander? You've got that Orlesian peacock running Amaranthine, and those ice weasels from the Anderfels breathing down your neck, but you're still waiting for the other boot to drop."

"If you're implying what I think you're implying..."

"Of course not, you sodding stonehead. You think I don't know what love is? Anora wasn't perfect, but she was good for you... almost too good, in fact, but that's the way it's supposed to be." He took another pull from his flask. "But you owe _her _a lot more than just killing the Archdemon, y'know."

Alistair stared into the fire.

"I know," he said softly. He turned back to Oghren.

"Go on, and take your drink with you. I've got a letter to write."

#

He sent the letter with an eager apprentice heading to Tevinter through the Free Marches, with instructions to pass it on to the nearest Circle representative upon crossing the Waking Sea. From there, he would just have to trust that it reached the right hands. They had hardly exchanged addresses when Neria had left.

To his relief, First Enchanter Petra was unconcerned at the thought of leaving the stone at the Tower.

"We've got more mages studying here than ever before. If we can't create a veritable wilderness of magical energy to hide the stone from the darkspawn, then there is nowhere in Thedas safe enough to hold it."

But after their talk the night before, Oghren would hear nothing more of Alistair accompanying him to Orzammar.

"Go run your country," the dwarf grumbled, "and spend time with your princess. I can handle those sodding stone-blind dusters."

So in the end, they split the royal detachment, with Oghren taking the western road toward the Frostback Mountains, and Alistair heading east, back to Denerim.


	7. Seasons

Wynne met him at home, her dimples as sweet and her smile as bright as they had been upon his departure.

Gratefully, he considered the stark difference between his comfortable home quarters, with Wynne in his lap and a roaring fire nearby, and the lukewarm reception Oghren was likely receiving in an Orzammar still bound by a fear of the surface. Alistair immersed himself in caring for his daughter, hoping fervently that no news would come from Amaranthine, save Simon's regular briefings on troop detachments and the rebuilding of the keep.

He held a quiet vigil for Anora, now that time allowed it, standing watchful by the tomb that seemed already cold and frozen in time. And he could think of nothing else to say to her, save to tell her that her daughter was beautiful.

The new rhythms of the palace and of Denerim fell into place with greater ease than he had expected. Alistair had breakfast with Eamon and Isolde, with Wynne in basket or bassinet beside them, and Nelys hovering nearby in case the princess required anything at all. Then it was off to a morning of meetings, audiences, errands or politics. Usually Nelys tended to Wynne while Alistair was busy seeing to affairs of state with Eamon, though in the sudden lull which had fallen gently upon them in the aftermath of Vigil's Keep, the arl seemed increasingly content to have their meetings broken by the princess' frequent interruptions. In fact, as the days progressed Alistair found himself amazed by the simple power his daughter possessed to elicit a smile from the most beleaguered of faces, and even to halt Nelys' nervous stammering.

"She is just like Anora was at that age," Eamon said whenever he saw her.

"I don't doubt it," Alistair always answered, smiling grimly against the familiar, dull pain at the words. He knew, from every feature of her face, and every hair of her head, that watching Wynne grow up would in some ways be like seeing Anora painted there beside him, and the thought was both bitter and sweet. But Wynne's brown eyes and easy smile were her own, as were the quiet moments father and daughter spent together in the palace gardens, watching the bees pollinate the roses, or the geese fly overhead.

Several weeks later, Oghren returned to Denerim, cursing about dusters, nugs, and dirty ale. No one knew why Branka's personal effects would have been scattered to the darkspawn, and apparently, no one cared. Since Branka's house had been capsized in the Paragon's mad search for the Anvil of the Void, few dwarves bothered to pay their respects to her memory.

"And apparently, they're all too busy fawning over Bhelen's new nug-muncher of an heir to think much about darkspawn."

With Oghren's return, Alistair divided his time between the capital and Amaranthine, and time swept by quickly in meetings in Denerim, in speeches to the soldiers rebuilding Vigil's Keep, in planning troop rotations with Simon and Oghren, in diplomatic hearings with Orlesians, Anders, and Tevinters, and, best of all, in telling stories before the fire as Wynne laughed and gurgled in his lap. No word arrived from the Free Marches, save an official stamp from the Circle, stating that his missive had been received and would be passed on to the mage in question. He read the letter more times than he would have admitted to anyone save Oghren, looking behind the staid phrases penned in a foreign hand for any hint of the whereabouts of the Hero of Ferelden.

He had not decided what sort of letter he was truly expecting to receive in return, once his own reached wherever it was bound at the end of its long journey. He had kept his tone light, and as diplomatic as he could. And he had told only the vaguest of details about the stone and the attack on Vigil's Keep, in case the letter did not make its destination intact. And he allowed himself only the briefest of moments to imagine the fate of his parchment, penned carefully, without ink-blots, when Neria opened it, assuming she ever did.

_She wouldn't ignore it. Not when it comes after so long, and with such importance._ And the importance wasn't for him, it was for Ferelden.

_The Ferelden she left behind._

No new missive came. Instead there were reports to be read and dinners to be held, passing seasons and Wynne's first giggling steps into his waiting arms. And after a time, Alistair stopped expecting a letter of any kind. That trail, too, had gone cold.


	8. Commanders & Caramels

N.B. Story narrative has now and forevermore moved forward five years in time.

* * *

"Congratulations on your promotion, Warden Commander Simon. And my sincere apologies for it being so long overdue."

Alistair had sprung the promotion on his former Lieutenant as part of a routine tour of Amaranthine. Prevailing upon the Orlesian man's enthusiasm for a formal affair, he had then convinced Simon to come to Denerim for the official ceremony, and now, as the Commander bowed his head before him, and then turned to wave at the crowd of Wardens, crown foot soldiers, and interested onlookers, Alistair was happy to join in the clapping and cheering that filled the air around them. The Warden ranks were not as full as they had been five years ago, but at least Simon had had success with several recent recruits, who were now whooping and cat-calling from the front row of the surrounding crowd.

"And now, we drink!" Oghren shouted from a crowd of foot soldiers standing near the tables of food and ale on the garrison training field. And as though the dwarf's words were a command from the Maker himself, the crowd shifted, splitting into smaller groups of revelers, or gathering on the other side of the field for music and dancing.

Alistair grasped Simon's hand firmly before pulling the other man into a firm hug.

"Thank you, Commander, for your exemplary service to Ferelden, and for being a sodding good friend."

"You are most welcome, Your Majesty," Simon grinned back, "it has been my utmost pleasure."

"Here, drink up," Oghren said, thrusting a foaming tankard of ale into Alistair's hands, as Simon made his way through the crowds to get a glass of wine.

For once, the assembled party were here to celebrate someone other than the king of Ferelden, and Alistair used his comparative anonymity to walk along the outskirts of the party, Oghren at his side. Above them, the sun was fading, painting the towering summer clouds in brilliant shades of gold and crimson.

"So you finally let the boot drop," the dwarf said, nodding. "He'll be a good Commander."

"Didn't you once call Simon an Orlesian peacock?" Alistair asked, raising an eyebrow at Oghren over his tankard.

Together, king and general looked at the growing crowd of well-wishers gathered around the new Commander. Simon was in his element, laughing and bowing to all, with a proud glint in his grey eyes.

"Once? Sod it, I call him a peacock every time I see him. He's the vainest, most puffed-up blighter I've ever met. But he knows how to fight, and how to keep his men in line. And he knows how to look death in the eye and not go running in the other direction."

The dwarf drank deeply from his tankard, until foam coated his beard and ale ran in rivulets down his chin. Alistair clapped his friend on the back with a laugh. Some things about Oghren never changed.

He made his way over to Simon to wish the Warden Commander a good evening.

"You are going so soon, Your Majesty? But I was hoping to discuss our plans for the new patrols along the Bannorn." Simon smiled, and Alistair grinned back, knowing the Orlesian Warden's protests for what they were - a friendly jibe from a man who had already made arrangements to stay up half the night with more than half of the women crowded around him.

"I look foward to discussing it with you, my friend. But not tonight. There's a very lovely young lady who has been awaiting my arrival back at the palace for far longer than I believe she has wished."

"Of course," Simon smiled warmly, "please give the princess my regards."

Alistair gave his Commander a last salute, and left the bustling training field, enjoying the brief walk through the blooming royal gardens to the palace's back doors.

He had not even had time to change from his travel clothes before the promotion ceremony began, and now, walking alone down the quiet halls of the palace, he felt a familiar smile of anticipation dance across his face.

"Papa!" Her excited shrieks met his ears even before the doors had opened. Alistair entered the family quarters and knelt, as a wild blonde whirlwind shot out of the adjoining bedroom and into his arms.

"You were gone so long! Did you bring me anything?" Without waiting for him to answer Wynne squirmed out of his arms and threw herself upon his saddlebag, reaching into the very bottom of the large pouch to extract a beribboned roll of caramel candies.

"My favorite! Can I eat one now, Papa?"

"Of course, my rose, and here's hoping it'll make you stay up all night so you can tell me all about your adventures here at the palace while I was gone." He kissed the fair head gently and began to unpack his things.

"Well, I didn't spend all the time in the palace. Nelys, Isolde and I went on a voyage to Tevinter, and on the way, we ran into pirates!"

"Indeed? I hope you showed them the might of Ferelden."

"Of course! We took them prisoner, and I made their captain walk the plank!"

"And you sailed all the way to Tevinter. That's quite a journey. Did you miss me?" He smiled, picturing Wynne's imaginary exploits through the palace library, kitchens, and Eamon's study in search of treasure and adventure.

"Oh, I didn't miss you, Papa, but Norice did. She whined at the door, and growled in her sleep, unless I let her share my pillow. And she drooled all over the bedclothes!"

Alistair smiled at the mock anger in his daughter's tone. Wynne and Norice had been inseparable since the child had discovered the mabari pup lying cold and abandoned in the stables.

"Did you give her some cheese? You know she behaves better when she has a bedtime snack."

"Yes, but then she mumbles in her sleep, and her breath smells all funny."

Alistair laughed in wonder at his daughter, and resisted the impulse to ruffle her hair, which she hated. Instead, he watched her act out the attacks and parries she had learned in her recent swordplay lessons, and heard her recite a poem she had written about Norice, made all the better by the sleepy dog's sudden appearance and her subsequent theft of Wynne's new caramel candies. Alistair smiled as he watched Wynne chase the mischievous mabari around the family quarters, finally giving up pursuit to curl up exhausted in her father's lap. Tenderly, he smoothed the rumpled curls on her brow.

_Don't ever grow up, my dear. Or, if you must, may you always stay as sweet and carefree as you are now._

Gently, he tucked Wynne into her bed, before sinking into a chair nearby. He sat, Norice drooling on his boots, until, smiling, he fell asleep.

Eamon woke him in the early dawn. A runner had come from the Circle Tower, bringing grim news. The darkspawn had found the stone. They were coming.


	9. Falling

The foot soldiers of the crown marched swiftly along the North Road, swords and shields glimmering under the hot summer sun. The Wardens marched with them, and here and there among the armored ranks Alistair could see the distinctive griffon armor of Simon and his recruits. They walked without pause, stopping only to make a brief camp when the moon had fully risen and Alistair's own fatigue finally lanced through the swirling mire of his thoughts, forcing him to rest.

He could not help but be troubled. Worried thoughts and theories echoed in his head, clamoring like the beat of a dozen blacksmith's hammers, until he closed his eyes against headache and questions both. In the five years she had held the stone, First Enchanter Petra had unearthed no new clues about its origin, nor any means of harnessing the latent power that so obviously resided in the stone itself. There seemed to be no way, she had told him after months of questions and tests, to use the stone to do even the most simple of tasks. "It is completely incompatible with a mage's power," Petra had said finally, looking just as disappointed as Alistair had felt. "It might as well be a lump of clay for all the good it does us."

_And yet it's drawn them here to the Tower, like a magnet._ In the years since the Blight, the darkspawn had never pressed inland as far as Lake Calenhad. Even the attack on Vigil's Keep had, he realized afterwards, been a skirmish, a wild surge which could have been quickly routed, had they had better warning. But, he reminded himself for the hundredth time since the army had begun the march to Lake Calenhad, it had been a skirmish to retrieve the stone. Somewhere, somehow, the darkspawn knew something the Wardens did not.

As though he could sense the weight on his friend's mind, Oghren pointedly presided over the crown squadron's cooking, forcing Alistair to down at least a plateful of the dwarf's ale and lamb stew, before supplementing the dish with one of his own potent flasks of homebrew.

"They won't get far. The mages will grind those sodding dusters into the Stone before we even have a chance to get our blades wet."

"Indeed," Simon nodded as he and the senior Wardens joined the king's campfire, "you worry too much, my friend."

Alistair smiled grimly at his companions, knowing that the expression did not reach his eyes.

"We should get moving before first light," he said softly, gazing into the fire, before finally forcing his eyes to close.

#

The sun was setting as the Long Road finally merged with the ancient Imperial Highway, and the sharp spire of the Circle Tower pulled into view. The army quickened its pace, bolstered by a following wind which wiped the sweat from their brows and even elicited a few smiles among Simon, Oghren, and the lieutenants of the crown squadron. But then the wind shifted, whirling around them until it met their travel-stained faces, and their smiles faded.

Screams carried on the breezes like the songs of sirens. Explosions, the wordless shouts of the darkspawn, and the clash of metal and stone filled the air. And beneath the tumult, the wind carried something else - the rank stench of the taint, and the piercing, metallic smell of blood.

Alistair grimaced, hearing his own voice give the command to charge like an echo in a dream.

"For Ferelden!"

Swords brandished like the teeth of an angry mabari, the Wardens and crown soldiers surged forward, racing toward the Tower.

As they neared Lake Calenhad, Alistair's breath caught in his throat. For a moment it looked as though the waters of the lake had risen to envelop the houses and buildings of the Tower docks. The hills were black with a seething mass of darkspawn, their ranks rippling in a sick mirror image of the lake beyond the Tower.

The mages were already fighting. Arcs of light and energy surged from the Tower windows, as bolts of fire and ice rained down upon the gathered hordes below. In front of the Tower gates, a line of mages and templars stood fast, the air around them hazy with energy as the mages cast fireballs and lightening against the tide.

The darkspawn recoiled as the crown's army surged toward them, for a moment rushing haphazardly into the crackling spells of the mages, or headlong against the swords of the king's soldiers, before turning to gather before a large structure in the center of the battlefield.

They had brought a catapult with them, a massive spidery black mechanism loaded with stones, pitch and fire. As the army drew closer the darkspawn fired, launching a seething fireball at the Tower. The missile crashed against the stone, cracking the spire and sending a shower of debris into the waters below.

"To the catapult! Cut it down!" Alistair yelled. Toe to toe with Oghren, he waded through the battlefield, knocking the creatures back with his shield, or cutting them down where they stood. The dwarf spun and pivoted beside him, cleaving limbs and beheading those genlocks too slow to duck or parry. Behind them, the crown archers shot volley after volley into the darkspawn ranks, arrows clattering around them like a dark and bloody rain.

But for every genlock he felled, it seemed to Alistair that another ran forward to take its place. Darkspawn roiled around the catapult, driving back the crown soldiers with the sheer mass of their bodies. From behind the ranks of genlocks and hurlocks came the snarling, tainted spells of the darkspawn emissaries, their dark magic warping the ground at their feet, and scorching the very air, until human, elf and dwarf, Warden and soldier fell before them, burning and bloody.

Next to the emissaries stood a hulking pair of ogres, rapidly preparing the catapult for another shot. The crown's soldiers wouldn't get there in time.

Another missile hurtled through the air to crash against the Tower, and this time, the spire snapped, and the entire pinnacle of the Circle Tower leaned, faltered, and fell.

_Maker's blood. There are people up there._

Mages, their brilliant robes clearly visible amidst the smoldering bones of the spire, were falling from the sky, dropping like stones from the Tower. Their screams added to the cacophony of grinding stone and breaking earth, and for one frozen moment, Alistair stood, sword numb in his hand. Then the spire hit the water with a crash of stone and salt spray and the cries of the dying. The Tower was broken.

Anger possessed him.

"Oghren!" Without waiting to see if the dwarf was following him, Alistair ran forward, blindly cutting through the ranks of hurlocks and genlocks to reach the ogres and the catapult they guarded. A pair of emissaries stood before him, tainted magic blossoming from their hands like a diseased flower. Instinctively, he called forth a blast of energy, stunning the darkspawn and sending them reeling backward, their spells broken. He ran past their bleeding bodies until he reached the first ogre, a scream upon his lips. The creature turned at his cry, meeting his bellow with a roar of its own. Dodging beneath the ogre's massive arms, he slashed at the creature's neck, closing his eyes against the spatter of blood, before battering his shield against its chest.

The ogre slid backward with the force of his blows, crashing against the catapult with a grunt. Then it braced itself and leapt forward, slashing at Alistair with its great hands.

Maker, but the beast was strong. The massive arms hammered against his shield like a mad gong, until his ears rang. Alistair raised his shield to block another blow, and felt his left arm snap as the ogre smashed its fist against him. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he raised his sword, hacking at the great purple arm. His blade skittered across the creature's gauntlet before burying itself in the flesh of the ogre's shoulder. Pivoting, Alistair recovered the blade, recoiled, and sprang, piercing the creature's heart.

He landed heavily on top of the ogre as the beast fell, falling on his crushed arm. His fight had carried him away from Oghren and the crown's squadron, and a quick look around him revealed no friendly faces. Grunting with pain, he slid his broken arm from the shield, and stood with his back to the catapult, waiting for the next enemy to show itself.

The frenzy of battle was unabated. Crown soldiers and darkspawn surged around the catapult, and the air was filled with the screams of the fighting and the dying. A familiar bellow sounded from the other side of the catapult. The other ogre was advancing around the siege engine, tearing off parts of the contraption as it went. It met his gaze with a bellow that shook the earth, showing massive yellow fangs. Swallowing blood and bile, Alistair met its challenge with a war cry, stepping forward, sword ready to strike.

Then a new sound filled the air, rising over the tumult of battle like a sea wind. It was a cry, not furious and frenzied like that of an ogre, but deep, strong, and mournful, and for a moment it seemed that every being on the battlefield, whether elf, dwarf, man or darkspawn stopped to hear it. The sound sent a chill along Alistair's spine, and he wondered grimly what new enemy could be advancing that made even a rampaging ogre stop in its tracks.

But no enemy came. A single line of mounted soldiers was charging down the hillside, cutting down the darkspawn as they came. Cavalry? But he had sent Bann Teagan with the Denerim horsemen to fight at the Brecilian border, and anyway, the muted green armor these riders wore was in no shade of any regiment of the crown. A closer look, and he saw that they were not horsemen at all. They were elves – riding the great halla beasts of legend.

The Dalish.

He stood his ground, meeting the ogre as it charged, pivoting and turning to avoid the creature's blows on his wounded arm. He dodged and rolled, slashing out with his blade as he turned, trying to land as many blows as he could, while staying clear of the ogre's grasp. It was useless. With a fist like an anvil, the beast beat at him, knocking the sword from his good hand as with its other arm it lifted him from his feet, gripping him so tightly he saw stars. Uselessly, he pummeled against it with his fist, turning in the creature's grasp, trying to find an opening. The massive hand tightened against him, and he felt a sudden, searing pain in his chest.

_Just like Cailan._ He almost wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, but there was no breath in his lungs. He waited, immobilized, for the death blow, feeling nothing but the rush of blood in his temples and the pain which threatened to engulf him.

Then a bloody blade protruded from the ogre's chest and the beast's grip slackened. Unable to break his fall Alistair tumbled to the earth, landing hard on the stony ground. His vision was darkening, and as if from everywhere he heard the drumming of hooves. Faintly, he realized that he was now lying under the protective body of a halla which stepped nimbly over him, its antlers lowered like a strange, spiky shield protecting him from the darkspawn.

Someone leapt down from the halla, and he heard swift footsteps racing toward the bellowing ogre. With eyes clouded by blood he saw a blurry figure leap through the air toward it, blades flashing with a strange light. Then the pain overcame him and Alistair saw nothing.


	10. Neria

"Your Majesty? Can you hear me?"

The voice caused his eyes to open, and for a moment, he was overwhelmed by light and blurred colors and shapes.

"His breath is steady," the voice continued, and from some distant memory it seemed to him that there was something familiar about it, though perhaps that was his blackout on the battlefield talking.

"Ma serannas, lethallan. And can you get me more water and bandages?"

"Yes, Neria. Right away."

Neria... the name entered his brain like a cool breeze, clearing the bloody haze from his mind. He opened his eyes wider, and willed his vision to focus.

Had he not known her so well all the years before, he would not have recognized her. She was no longer dressed in the mage robes of the Circle, but instead wore Dalish armor, which glistened in the light like leaves in a sun-drenched wind. In place of the staff she had always worn on her back, she bore two elven blades, their metal shimmering with the light of magic. Even her face had changed: strange colorful tattoos now crowned her forehead, and snaked like ivy down her cheeks.

_It's you_. He tried to speak her name, but choked instead, feeling the bitter aftertaste of blood in his throat.

"Shh. Let my magic do its work," she said softly, and for a moment her voice took on the tone it had when he first met her – strong and self-assured, and with more than a little disdain for him – for being human and a templar, and for not being a mage.

"You tried to kill an ogre alpha on your own. You really haven't learned anything from the past, have you?" Her hands were busy with herbs and bandages, but she smiled at him in good-natured mockery.

_No, it seems I haven't_. He tried to raise his head, but even that caused his vision to blur, and sent aches through his muscles and bones.

"Easy," she said, gently propping him up so that he could get a better look at himself.

_Maker's breath_. It looked like he'd taken a dive into the Archdemon's maw. Bandages covered his chest, and his belly was purple with bruises. His left arm was still broken, and bleeding through the bandages. As for his legs...

"You were lucky to escape with your life. I don't think you'll be walking any time soon, but the damage will not be irreparable. I've given you herbs to stop the pain for now."

She lifted the bedclothes, and he could see that splints and bandages adorned both limbs. _Thank the Maker I can't feel them yet – they'll burn like Andraste's pyre when the herbs wear off._

"Anyway," Neria continued, "there's very little of you that isn't broken, bloody or bruised in some fashion, and your army seems woefully short on mages, so it looks like we'll be spending some time together for awhile." Her voice had changed, and abruptly, she moved away from him, busying herself with something beyond his limited range of vision.

"I'll inform Oghren and the other commanders that you're awake. I'm sure they'll want to see you."

"Neria." His voice was hoarse, and his throat burned with pain. But she turned to face him, and for an instant he could see the tears in her eyes, and a grimace of pain on her face. Then she straightened, her face hardened, and she bowed stiffly.

"Your Majesty," she said, and was gone.


	11. Godstone

"Where is he? Where is the king?" Face drawn with worry, Simon pushed his way into the tent, his face falling further into its scowl as he saw Alistair.

"Sodding ancestors," Oghren cursed from behind the Orlesian Warden. "You look like a golem used you for a punching bag."

Neria followed the men into the tent, carrying fresh water and linen. Gently, she removed the bandages from his chest, Alistair watching her ministrations with a nauseated curiosity as she replaced the bloodstained poultices with fresh linen and herbs.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and Alistair felt the familiar tingle of magic fill the tent as Neria prepared to cast a spell.

"What are you doing?" Simon asked suspiciously, as Neria placed her fingers on either side of Alistair's throat, murmuring the words which accompanied healing magic.

"I am healing the torn tissues in his throat, Commander," Neria replied softly, her eyes blank and neutral before his angry glare.

"But who are you? And how do you know the king?" Alistair recognized the look in Simon's face. It was the same expression he used when speaking to the Warden emissaries from the Anderfels, who had become infamous among the Ferelden Wardens for paying surprise visits to Amaranthine to "check in" on the Orlesian Commander.

"Simon," he said, feeling Neria's spell run like cool water down his parched throat, "she is the reason I am alive. This is the Hero of Ferelden."

Simon halted, clearly at a loss for words, as the conversation was broken by Oghren's amused snort.

"I thought she'd make her way back here. She just had to let us squirm a bit first."

He grasped Neria in a hearty handshake, which quickly turned into a bearish hug.

"It's good to see you again, Warden. Been a lot less fun killing darkspawn without you."

"Oh, Oghren. You're just saying that because you missed having someone to play Diamondback with." Neria smiled, clapping the dwarf on the shoulder.

"It is good to see you too, old friend."

Time and silence hung heavy in the tent. Alistair looked from Oghren to Neria, feeling for a moment that all three of them were looking back ten years earlier, to a time when such jokes and easy sparring had been commonplace. It was almost enough to believe that if he closed his eyes, he would be back in their old camp, recovering from their latest exploits, or sobering up after crashing the nearest tavern. Then the moment faded, and time reasserted itself with the heavy weight of his broken limbs, the stench of the tainted ground, and the sounds from outside the tent, of other soldiers in pain.

He turned to Simon.

"Is the stone secure?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. The crown squadron guards it now."

"And what of..." the words almost fell dead in his throat, but he forced himself to say them. "What of the mages?"

"The Tower is fallen," Simon said softly, "there are a few survivors, but... most perished in the battle. We are trying to recover their bodies now."

Alistair shut his eyes. The words tumbled over and over in his head. The Tower fallen. Drawing a slow breath, he opened his eyes again and looked at Neria.

Her face was darkened and drawn. Though Neria's hands moved quickly, tending to his splints and bandages, Alistair thought he saw her tremble at the words.

"They will come for it again," she said softly. "It is too powerful for them to leave it alone."

"Neria's right," Oghren rumbled, looking easily to the Warden mage as if she had been gone only a week, instead of a decade. "We can't leave it here."

But Alistair gazed at the elven Warden, a knot forming in his stomach.

"You know what that... thing is?"

Neria nodded slowly.

"Yes. It is a Vhen'talennahr. A stone of the gods."

#

"A what?" Oghren's confused question spoke for all of them.

Neria met Alistair's gaze, but her eyes were shadowed.

"A godstone. The Dalish believe it is a gateway... a conduit to the divine. The ancient keepers of Arlathan would have used the stone to commune with the Creators. But its power is undiminished, even now that the elven gods no longer speak."

"So the Tevinter mages used it for their own purposes," Simon said, his face ashen, "to _commune _with the old gods of the Imperium."

"And the darkspawn believe they can..." the words died on Alistair's lips.

_Maker, they can use it to find an old god._

"We have to protect it," he said fiercely, "or... or destroy it."

To his surprise it was Oghren, not Neria, who responded.

"And what kind of power would it take to break that stone? You can't even touch the thing without getting all quivery," the dwarf stared at Alistair. "Who's to say that whatever we did to destroy it wouldn't be worse than keeping it here?"

"But we can't use it," Alistair continued, trying to sit up and wincing as pain shot along his chest. "We tried..."

"The Circle tried to figure it out, sure," Oghren said, "but ancestors only know if they didn't try the wrong things. They had that stone for five sodding years, and couldn't use it to light a fart on fire." He turned to Neria. "She's our best chance of figuring this thing out."

The elf mage spoke, her voice soft.

"It is your choice, Your Majesty. But I believe it when I tell you that the Dalish can safeguard the godstone, and perhaps decipher its power."

"I--" Alistair paused. "I want to see them." He gestured to the field outside, where the calls of the wounded and dying still echoed. He couldn't make this decision lying on a cot in a tent, not without seeing his army in broad daylight.

"Very well, Your Majesty," Simon said softly, "but know that it is worse here than it was at Vigil's Keep."

Together, Simon and Oghren lifted Alistair's cot and maneuvered him out of the tent, Neria holding back the flap as they went. As his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, Alistair suppressed a cry of dismay.

Simon's words had not prepared him for the sight that greeted him here. The hills surrounding the Tower docks were blackened with blood, the grass charred by the tainted spells of the darkspawn. Above him, the ruins of the Circle Tower stretched like a skeletal hand into the sky, the spell-seared stone and wreckage still smoldering. Furniture, masonry, and the bright-clad bodies of dead mages and templars lay scattered like shrapnel from the blast.

His army was literally bleeding onto the earth, as survivors and walking wounded moved the injured away from the tainted ground to the makeshift infirmary where Alistair and his companions now stood. In the valley below, soldiers and Wardens picked among the ruined village buildings and the broken bodies, looking for survivors. Before the Tower itself, pyres were already blazing for those who had not survived the onslaught.

Alistair closed his eyes at the sight, feeling anger surge within him.

"Your Majesty," Simon whispered, "perhaps it would be best if--"

"No." His eyes snapped open. "This cannot happen again."

He clenched his free fist until the knuckles turned white, glaring at the fires and the broken bodies and all the blood as if they were living enemies he could cut down, beasts he could fell to find some order beneath all the chaos. He would find a way to answer for the death that surrounded them.

"Oghren," he said grimly, "Take your division and make for Orzammar. We need answers from the Deep Roads. Bhelen has to have some idea where the darkspawn are coming from, some way we can stop them. I don't care what excuse he has this time."

The dwarf laughed darkly.

"Aye. I'll get an answer, if I have to put Antivan whiskey into Bhelen's chowder and drag him off to Bownammar myself."

"Simon," Alistair turned to the Orlesian, "take the crown scouts with a message to Redcliffe. Tell them to prepare for the wounded."

Simon frowned, opening his mouth and shutting it again, before giving a terse nod.

"Neria," Alistair continued, and if the mage was surprised at his command, she did not show it, "please, help as many as you can. Get them on their feet again."

She nodded, meeting his gaze, her eyes reflecting his own anger and sadness.

"As soon as I can move, we're heading north. I'm going to call in a favor in Highever."


	12. Questions

Simon left before sunset, and after a night of grumbling about sleeping on the stony ground, smelling the stench of the battlefield, and listening to the strange, bleating cries of the Dalish halla, Oghren gathered the surviving soldiers of his detachment and headed west to the Frostback Mountains.

Alistair remained, resting on the cot, half in and half out of the tent, giving instructions to the crown lieutenants, and taking stock of the remaining forces of Denerim's army, or later, when Neria's medicine began to wear off, sending shooting pain along his legs and broken arm, gazing out along the blasted hillsides as the army recovered its footing.

He watched the injured arrive in the infirmary, screaming in pain or silent in death throes, bleeding from sword wounds, magical wounds, or, worst of all, wounds infected by the taint. He watched as Neria and her handful of Dalish mages ministered to them, chanting spells, crushing herbs, and winding linen strips to fill the never-ending call for bandages. He watched the clouds roil around the broken Tower spire, and tried to get his thoughts into a semblance of order of what needed to be done when they reached Highever. He watched as more pyres were lit like beacons along the Imperial Highway, for the ever-increasing toll of the dead. And he watched as his lieutenants reported that all who could have been saved from the battle-torn valley had been, as the infirmary sprawled over the hillside, filled with those preserved, through magic or medicine, from death at the hands of the darkspawn.

Exhaustion written plainly on her face, Neria sank to the ground next to Alistair's cot, resting her chin on her hand. But she sat there only a moment before rising again, this time to check Alistair's wounds.

"I should give you more herbs for the pain," she said, reaching for the bag of medicines on her belt.

"Leave them for those who need them," he said, shaking his head slowly.

"As you wish," the mage raised an eyebrow, "though you may think twice when I start mending your legs. Healing was never my gift."

Alistair looked out at the ocean of cots and blankets spread on the grass for the wounded.

"Thank you," he said softly, "for saving them. I wish--"

He wished a lot of things, as memories of the last day echoed like a dirge in his mind: over and over again the same faces covered in blood, while the Tower burned and fell from the sky. But wishing would not rebuild the Circle, or banish the darkspawn, or bring the fallen back.

"Well," he said finally, "thank you."

He watched her, hands held uselessly in her lap, fingers twitching from casting too many spells. Her face was drawn as he knew his own was, from watching the specter of death lurking in the valley, oozing with the blood into the earth, or blown with the ashes on the wind over the lake. Consciously, he turned his thoughts elsewhere.

"I must admit, you're the last person I would have expected to see charging down the hill on a halla."

She smiled tiredly, a quick flash before her face dimmed, became unreadable.

"Indeed. A lot of things have happened that I would never have expected."

"Hmm."

A detail which hadn't registered through the blurred events of the past day was declaring itself plainly now. With his free arm, he gestured to the insignia of a green griffon on Neria's elven armor, a broken smile crossing his lips as he realized that the same symbol was emblazoned on the armor of every Dalish who had ridden with her.

"Does that mean what I think it does?"

"I would imagine so, Your Majesty."

"Then..." he stopped and looked at the Dalish soldiers scattered across the battlefield. There were more than forty of them - digging trenches, lighting pyres, tending to the wounded, or standing vigil against another attack.

"Then all of them are..."

"Wardens, yes."

"How..." Questions filled his mind, teeming together so violently that for a moment he was unsure what to even ask. "How did you manage it?"

She looked down at the ground, fingers idly brushing the grass at her feet.

"Manage to recruit Wardens, or manage to come back to Ferelden?"

"Anything. Everything. I--" He tried to turn on the cot to see her face, and winced as pain shot across his chest.

"Don't move," Neria said softly, this time reaching for her herbs and fresh linen to change his bandages.

She worked in silence for a time, eyes focused on her task. Then, finished, she sat once more, looking out at Lake Calenhad.

"Do you remember..." her voice trailed off, and this time he had no doubt what she was thinking.

"I remember what we both said," he said softly, "when we parted."

"Despite what I said when I... when I left Denerim, I did my best to live up to my promise, in my own way. I am still a Warden Commander." She gestured to her soldiers. "We are the Wardens of the Elvhenan. There are more of us in Arlathan."

"More of you?" Alistair repeated, amazed. "In Arlathan?"

She nodded slowly.

More questions competed to be heard, and if it didn't hurt so much, he would have shaken his head to clear it.

"But..." he finally managed, "how did you get the materials for the Joining? And how did you find so many recruits? And, of all things," he asked, a sudden eager curiosity spurring him onward, "how did you do any of it without my knowing about it?"

"Do not underestimate me, Your Majesty—" her voice hardened, and he held up his free hand.

"Please stop calling me that. You of all people should never call me that."

"Alistair, then."

"Thank you."

"The Circle in the North Reaches was kind enough to provide the resources I needed. And as for the blood of the Archdemon, well..." One corner of her mouth twitched, a ghost of amusement echoing across her face.

"That was you?!" Alistair asked incredulously, wincing again as his body complained at his enthusiasm. He remembered a scene almost nine years ago, when his court chancellor had informed him that overnight, exactly one half of the stockpiled archdemon blood had been stolen, and that there was absolutely no trace of the thief.

"Well, it was Zevran, really," Neria smiled. "I thought of telling you, but it would mean admitting what I'd been up to, among other things."

She fell silent, smile vanishing as fast as it had come.

"I'm impressed," he said softly, "truly, I am. When I... five years ago, I sent a letter to the Free Marches. I thought--"

"I got your letter. At the time, I didn't know about the godstone. When I finally learned what it was... I thought it might be best to tell you in person."

For one breath, her eyes sought his, brow furrowing as if she were searching for something.

"I wanted--"

She stopped suddenly, clapping a hand to her mouth, before letting it drop.

"I'm sorry," she said, standing up again, looking out over the hillside.

"Neria--"

She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"I should go."


	13. The Broken Tower

The next morning Neria announced that it was time to heal his legs and arm. This time, she suggested that Alistair take herbs for the pain, though at his insistence, she didn't give him enough to put him to sleep. After all that had happened, he knew he would rather face the pain of real blood and bones than the wordless apparitions of guilt and despair which clouded his thoughts every time he slept.

It was an odd feeling, watching magical energy flow from Neria's fingertips and feeling it connect with the broken bones and tissue. Pain grew like a fire until every limb was aching, and Alistair found himself unconsciously whispering the chants he had learned as a templar as Neria's healing progressed, grateful for any distraction. So whispering, he turned his head to watch the mages tend to the injured, while the crown soldiers and Dalish Wardens continued their vigil against another attack. They were all on edge from the battle, he knew, and tense, just as he was, from watching the rolling grasses on the hills, or scanning along the Imperial Highway, looking for intruders or more darkspawn. But the hours crept by, with no new sense of taint marring his senses. The darkspawn were gone, for now.

"There," Neria's soft voice startled him, and he turned his head. His limbs felt different - the bones and muscles whole once more, though he shook with fatigue. Grasping Neria's arm tightly with his right hand, he sat up, feeling the pain gradually diminish. Slowly, he stood, half-smiling, half-grimacing as he took slow, shuffling steps around the cot.

"How do you feel?" Neria asked when they had completed two halting circuits.

"Better than I would have expected," he smiled, "you are more of a healer than you admit."

Neria gave him a half smile, and was about to say something, when hasty footfalls made them both turn.

"Your Majesty," Basil, one of the crown lieutenants approached, face stained with ashes and dirt from lighting the funeral pyres. "We've found the First Enchanter."

Alistair winced. He had known Petra was dead when the army commanders had completed their sweep of the field. No one could have survived the nights trapped in the wreckage of the collapsed Tower, not with the oppressive pollution of the darkspawn taint that still oozed from the broken stones like blood from a feverish wound. He had thought himself prepared for the announcement ever since. But now that word had come, he felt pain and anger rise in him anew, killing off the faint specter of hope he hadn't realized was there.

Only one mage from the Tower had recovered enough to help tend the wounded - a young apprentice with flyaway hair and terrified, staring eyes. Now she stood, trembling, mouth open in shock as she stared at the lieutenant, before she fell to her knees, weeping.

"Take me to her." And leaning heavily on Basil's arm, he walked slowly down the hillside, trembling from fatigue like a man newly risen from a lengthy illness. They made their way along the Imperial Highway, passing dozens of pyres until they reached the Tower entrance. Basil and his soldiers had built a new pyre here, and there, amidst the flickering flames, Alistair saw the First Enchanter.

Unable to balance on his weakened legs, he sank to the ground, resting his head in his hands. The ghoulish faces of the dead, and the blood-tinged emotions of anger and helplessness he had tried all day to avoid broke forth anew, rushing over him until he wanted to scream. For some reason he could picture Petra's face more clearly than the others. Her self assured smiles from the times they had met to discuss the godstone all ran together, one after the other, falling and splintering across his mind like cracks in a stained glass window.

_This is my fault. I brought this upon you. _He gazed upward, peering through the smoke clouds at the ruined Tower, ignoring the sting of the ash and cinders. _I brought this upon you all._

A small sound behind him made him turn.

Neria had followed them down the hill like a wandering wraith. Now she stood, looking from the burning pyre to the shattered bones of the broken Tower pinnacle, tears running down her cheeks. It was as though a veil had been lifted from her, and now he could see clearly the sadness and anger written on her face, and the hollowness that had crept behind her eyes.

"I never..." her voice sounded like a breath of wind in a tomb. "I never thought I'd see it like this.

"I'm sorry," was the only thing he could think to say.

She sank to the ground beside him, body shaking with silent sobs, clutching uselessly at her knees, her shoulders, her hair, as though trying to rid herself of what she saw.

"I'm sorry."

He repeated the words, time and blood and the regrets of the dead swirling like the smoke around them, until he felt he would choke.

Blindly, he reached out, fingers grasping for a contact they had not had in years, almost forgotten.

Her hand met his, fingers clasping his own, as though they were two drowning swimmers, trying to keep afloat amidst a sea of darkness.


	14. To Highever

Four days had passed after the siege on the Tower, and finally, the army had seen to all of the dead and wounded.

Alistair sat in the grass overlooking the battlefield, finishing a letter. The sun had finally lanced through the choking haze of smoke and the dark, magic-spawned clouds of the battle, and for the first time since the fall of the Tower it looked like summer again. The army was packing, gathering weapons and supplies as the last of the walking wounded got to their feet.

He had written three letters this morning, and with a final splatter of ink on parchment, he completed a fourth before laying it on the grass to dry. The first missive was a letter to Eamon, telling the regent of the outcome of the battle, with various instructions for Teagan and the cavalry when they returned from the Brecilian Forest. The second was a letter to Wynne, telling her to look after Norice, and asking for a full report on all Tevinter pirate activity in the area upon his return to Denerim. Both of these would be sent with a runner to the capital.

The third was a short note to Simon. Alistair knew that his Warden Commander hated to be sent away on what he thought was a fool's errand, but he explained the risk in leaving Lake Calenhad and its surrounds undefended. He was sending the rest of Simon's Wardens to Redcliffe this afternoon, and charged Simon with holding vigil against further darkspawn attacks in the region. And, while Simon might hate being asked to serve as watchdog, he knew that the Orlesian Warden would at least ensure that Redcliffe was warned in the case of another attack.

As for the fourth letter... well, he would deal with it when he reached Highever. This was the missive which had given him the most trouble, and as he watched the glistening letters dry, he shook his head. The godstone, it seemed, was going to be cause for writing more awkward and unanticipated letters than he had ever believed he would have cause to write. Though, as he watched Neria's Wardens form ranks along the hillside, their green armor glistening in the sun as the halla stood around them, watching and waiting, he considered that despite the difficulty of writing such missives, the outcome was not, in all cases, a bad one.

He collected parchment, ink and quill and stood up carefully, swaying slightly on his newly-mended legs. He felt stronger with each passing day, but Neria had warned him that it would be many days, if not weeks, before his full strength returned. Walking slowly, as though every step was new, he returned to the makeshift tents of the infirmary to collect his shield and sword before joining Lieutenant Basil and the other army commanders in discussing the journey to Highever.

Alistair was dividing the army, with a small force accompanying the more seriously wounded to Redcliffe. Neria's Wardens, his own men from the crown squadron, and two divisions of archers and footmen would go north with the godstone.

Neria approached as Alistair was giving the last orders to his lieutenants, leading one of the halla. She waited in silence as Basil and the others departed, before she spoke.

"Here," she gave a half-nod to the halla. "You'll need a ride. You shouldn't be walking too much yet, not while your bones are still healing."

"You mean..." he hesitated, considering the strange animal. "You mean for me to ride to Highever? On a halla?"

"Yes, I do. Doctor's orders." She looked sideways at the halla, a ghost-smile flashing across her face. The halla turned its head, looking from Neria to Alistair, and though the creature's face was unreadable, Alistair had a suspicion that elf and beast were sharing a private joke.

"I'm not really used to riding without a saddle," he said lamely, adjusting the shield on his back.

"Don't worry. This is Shann. She's the matriarch of our halla clan. She won't harm you."

_Maker_.

"All right. How do I..."

As had been required of him to oversee the Denerim cavalry, Alistair had learned well how to ride in peace and in battle. But those had been horses, with full saddle and stirrups, not a wild forest beast standing half a head taller than the largest mount in the crown stables.

As if sensing his thoughts, the halla - Shann, Alistair repeated to himself, remembering that the Dalish viewed these creatures as friends and allies, not beasts of burden - stepped forward, fixing him with her large golden eyes. A presence, wordless and alien, but not harsh or hostile, announced itself in his mind. No voice announced itself, but as Shann gazed at him Alistair could not help but feel his apprehensions dissolve.

Neria spoke a single, soft word, and Shann knelt before them in the grass, allowing Alistair to climb onto her back. Then she stood, slowly and smoothly, and began walking down the hillside.

As they joined the army now beginning the journey north, Alistair noticed that he was not the only member of the walking wounded to undergo such treatment. A number of recovering crown soldiers dubbed too uneasy on their feet were now riding halla, escorted by the Dalish Wardens.

Neria disappeared among her Wardens while Alistair rode slowly to the front of the line to lead the army northward. For a time he rode with the crown soldiers, listening to the chatter that naturally accompanied travel slowly pick up and travel through the ranks. He was glad to see the smiles on his soliders' faces as they turned north with a new purpose, and relief in their eyes as mile after mile passed with no new threat from the darkspawn. He could not help but share the feeling, now that they were leaving the blasted remains of the Tower. The sorrow that had held them all in its grip was dissipating, however slowly, as the ghosts of what they had all seen faded with the horizon.

"Your Majesty rides well," a sudden voice jolted him out of his reverie. Neria had joined him again, this time riding a halla of her own. "It suits you far better than I would have thought." Her smile grew then, until it was bordering on a smirk, and Alistair drew breath for a riposte to her half-joke. His reply was cut off by a barking laugh from both halla.

Alistair sighed and shook his head, allowing his own face a brief smile as he looked back over his shoulder at the crown army, the Wardens, and Neria. They all needed to laugh.

#

As he had hoped, the banners of Highever were flying as they approached, the laurel wreath of the Teyrn's family shining brightly under the summer sun. The journey had been uneventful, though Neria hadn't exaggerated when she'd said he would need a ride. Even though his legs hurt from riding, Alistair knew the pain was far less than it would have been had he walked for the three days they had spent hiking through the Coastlands. Gratefully, he stroked Shann's neck, feeling an equally gentle _pressure _from her presence in his mind, a parting salutation.

"Thank you," he said softly, surprised at how he had come to trust the halla over the course of their journey.

The Dalish Wardens and their halla were an exotic sight in the courtyard of Highever castle, and the teyrn's soldiers were showing good-natured amusement at their unexpected guests.

Teyrn Fergus Cousland met him as Alistair dismounted, grinning as though he thoroughly enjoyed the sight in front of him.

"Your Majesty, what a pleasant surprise."

But as Fergus moved closer, his face fell as he saw the wounds borne by some of the crown soldiers, and the blood-spattered armor they wore.

"Maker's mercy. What happened?"

"It's a long story, Fergus," Alistair said, feeling the grimness and anger of the past several days settle back upon him. "And I will tell it. But first, I need to commission a ship. One that can sail to Orlais."


	15. A Favor From the Teyrna

_N.B. The story Fergus' wife tells in this chapter plays around a bit with Chantry hierarchy. I made these changes because I didn't think it would make sense for Fergus to be making mundane inquiries of the Divine herself. So - random Revered Mother in the Grand Cathedral it is! :)_

* * *

Fergus' face darkened as Alistair told his story, going from the paleness of shock to the simmering purple of rage. Despite this, the teyrn was endeavoring to be a gracious host to his unexpected guests. He had called for food and drink from the castle kitchens, and now most of Alistair's army sat on benches in the great hall, or outside in the castle gardens, with Neria and her Wardens. The army was digging in, clearly showing through seemingly bottomless appetites their enthusiasm at finally having left the Tower.

Alistair ate with the teyrn in the castle atrium, though the fragrant plants and bubbling fountains did little to ease his mind. He had asked Neria to join them once she had seen to her Wardens and their halla, and now as he finished his tale the mage appeared, wiping the summer dust from her hands.

"Fergus, you remember the Hero of Ferelden," Alistair said by way of re-introduction, knowing the man might not recognize Neria after so long.

"Of course. A pleasure, my lady. My wife has sung your praises many times since the Blight ended."

"Thank you, Teyrn Fergus." Neria nodded, accepting the bread and cheese and a tankard of ale that Fergus offered.

Fergus turned back to Alistair, brows re-knitting as he returned to the subject at hand.

"So what would you have me do? How can we protect this... god-stone, was it?"

"Neria believes the Dalish of the north can better protect the stone than we can in Ferelden," Alistair explained. "I was hoping to send the stone with her Wardens to the Free Marches as soon as possible."

"The Dalish?" Fergus' eyes widened in surprise.

Neria nodded.

"It's true. We have outposts throughout the Free Marches, and the support of allies in Antiva. But not only that, I believe the Dalish may have the means to use the stone, perhaps even against the darkspawn, if we can. When I leave to return to Arlathan I will take enough Wardens with me to see to its protection. Once we cross the Waking Sea, I believe it will be safe."

"When _you _leave?" Alistair blurted the question before he had time to think, his words echoing off of the atrium's walls.

"I..." Neria paused, looking surprised at the question. "Yes."

"But... given the circumstances, I thought you would stay here." He ignored Fergus' curious stare. "The darkspawn are still a threat. We may even need to leave for the Deep Roads soon, if Oghren can't get any answer from Bhelen."

A distant memory tugged at him, and for a moment Alistair was painfully aware of the last time he had asked Neria to remain in Ferelden. He shook his head. This was different. This was more important. He couldn't find words to explain to Fergus, Neria, or anyone why he was suddenly determined that the mage should stay, but his mind remained fixed.

_Though if Oghren were here, I'm sure he'd have plenty to say about it_, he thought ruefully.

The expression on Neria's face was unreadable. Surprise was clearly written in her eyes, but he could not tell what other emotions else his impulsive request had elicited. Was the flash of color beneath her tattoos anger? Or was the set of her jaw hiding something else?

"You are the Hero of Ferelden," he said after a moment, realizing it sounded like an excuse.

_It's not just that. It's something different._ He felt suddenly like he was losing his footing.

"I... all right," she said slowly, her face still unreadable. "Then I shall send Thoris, my first lieutenant, with a squadron of Wardens. They can sail as soon as you're ready."

"Good." The word sounded strange on his lips, as though his tongue had developed its own agenda. He shook his head again, trying to clear it.

Fergus looked at Alistair, a flash of a smile dancing across his face.

"But you need two ships then, don't you? If you intend to commission one to Orlais?"

"Indeed." Alistair nodded, his expression darkening. He knew the man would not like what he had to say next.

"I also need to ask a favor from your wife."

#

The teyrna of Highever sat reading a book in the castle study, her lap filled with the sleeping form of the teyrn-apparent. As though she had already been expecting him, she shut her book as Alistair entered, giving him a warm smile. But when she saw who had entered the room behind him, she gasped, her vivid blue eyes wide.

"Neria!" she whispered, though Alistair was certain that if her son had not been sleeping in her arms she would have leapt up to embrace the Hero of Ferelden in her usual effusive manner.

"Maker's breath! I didn't know you were here!"

The teyrna smiled, and Neria met her smile in turn, crossing the room to take the other woman's outstretched hand in greeting.

"It is so good to see you, Leliana," she said quietly, kissing the bard on the cheek.

Leliana looked from Neria to Alistair, her face a pleasant mixture of surprise and happiness. Then, taking care not to wake her child she stood and walked to the door.

"Let me put him to sleep in the nursery. Then we can talk."

But as she spoke, the child stirred, yawning sleepily, before turning to his mother and her guests with a broad smile.

"Cookie?" he asked, small hands twining in her hair as Leliana laughed.

"Then I misspoke, my dear ones," the bard smiled, looking from her son to Alistair and Neria. "To the kitchen we go, instead."

She led them down the bustling castle corridors to the kitchen, Neria walking close beside her, forcing a slight but palpable distance between herself and Alistair. Neria's face was still unreadable when she looked at him, as it had been during their conversation in the atrium, and now she turned deliberately to speak with her old friend. Alistair followed both women down the hallway, listening to them catch up on lost time.

"He has your eyes," Neria was saying, looking from Leliana to her grinning baby.

"And my hair. But my little Bryce has his father's chin." Leliana smiled.

"I... I had no idea you were married. When did you..."

"Almost three years ago, now. I saw Fergus in Orlais, after I tracked down Marjolaine." The musical lilt of her voice never faltered, though for one instant her eyes hardened, and Alistair knew that Leliana had finally managed to end whatever hold her former lover and mentor had had upon her. Then the hardness was gone, and Leliana laughed.

"It was his first time to Val Royeaux, and he was hopelessly lost. He had a meeting with one of the Empress' ambassadors, but had stopped for afternoon prayers at the Grand Cathedral. Well, unbeknownst to him, when he arrived there, he wandered into the novice's quarters, instead of the main cathedral chamber."

"Maker, no!" Alistair said. Though he had heard the story before, he always enjoyed it when Leliana chose to tell a tale.

"Wouldn't they have thought he was trying to become a cloistered brother then?" Neria asked, eyebrow quirking with amusement.

"Indeed. They took his clothes and shoes, and dressed him in Chantry robes. But since he was new to Orlais, Fergus just thought it was how worship was conducted in Val Royeaux. He sat through the prayers, but when the time came for him to leave, he couldn't find his clothes, and none of the priests would tell him where they were kept. And when he asked the Revered Mother for help, she tried to turn him over to the templars!"

They had reached the kitchen, and Leliana led them inside, finding a cookie for her son, and some tea for the adults. They sat at the kitchen table, waiting for the kettle to boil.

"But didn't she know who he was?" Neria asked.

"She didn't believe him, and he had no proof. He had even taken off his signet ring. Novices aren't allowed to wear any jewelry, after all. Apparently, not even his accent changed her mind. She thought he was just some urchin, or a madman who had escaped from the docks.

"Fortunately, I was staying in the chantry then, and I was able to convince the Revered Mother of his identity." She smiled. "Though we never did get his clothes back."

They all laughed, even baby Bryce, who clambered up onto his mother's lap for a hug, before slipping down again to toddle around the kitchen.

"I'm glad to see you doing so well." Neria said, smiling.

"And I you," Leliana trilled. "I see life in the Free Marches has been full of adventures."

Neria shrugged as Leliana rose to make tea from the hissing kettle.

"I suppose so."

"And you are a Dalish mage now? Oh, but I wish I could have been with you for some of your journeys."

Neria's eyes darkened as she looked across the table to Alistair.

"Well, that's partly why we've come." Alistair said, trying to keep his voice as gentle as he could.

He paused, watching the toddler wobble his way around the room, cookie half-forgotten in his chubby hand.

"Leliana, I never wanted to ask this, especially not now, with Bryce. But I don't know who else to ask..."

"Alistair," concern colored Leliana's lilting voice, "tell me already."

He took out the last letter he had written at the Tower and looked at the ink-spattered parchment for a moment.

"I need you to find Morrigan," he said, pressing the letter into her hands, "and give this to her. Her life, and--" he broke off before saying the words, gazing at the letter as though it were penned in poison, or blood.

_I never thought I would have to write it._

"Morrigan's child is in danger."


	16. Clutches of the Past

Leliana's eyes widened, and Alistair knew she was remembering a conversation from many years ago, when he had told his closest friends the truth of what had happened the night the Archdemon died. Neither Leliana nor Oghren had turned from him then, and over the years Alistair believed their friendships had fared far better with them knowing the truth. He had not expected the past to suddenly collide with the present.

Neria sat silent in her chair, looking down at the mug of tea in front of her. But when Alistair looked at her she met his eyes, and rose.

"Leliana, may I take Bryce for a walk? I bet he'd love to meet the halla."

"Oh, indeed," Leliana said, giving Neria a brief smile. "Be good to your aunt Neria," she said, kissing her son's cheek as Neria lifted him into her arms.

"Now, young man," Neria said, as Bryce giggled and tugged at her hair, "it's time to introduce you to my friends. They're very fond of children."

Alistair waited for the door to shut behind them before turning back to Leliana.

"Do you remember the stone Simon found in the forest, about five years ago? How we sensed power in it, but the mages couldn't get it to work? Neria says it's a pathway... a way to speak with the gods. The Tevinter Imperium stole it from the elves, and now the darkspawn wish to use it to find the next old god."

"Maker's breath." Leliana sighed, her smile fading to a grimace.

"It gets worse," Alistair said, taking a sip from his half-cold cup of tea.

"The darkspawn have been far more strategic than they could ever be on their own. Both times they've come against the stone they've nearly destroyed us. It's like some other force is commanding them - something that knows where to search for the godstone and how to fight against us."

"A general of darkspawn?" Leliana's blue eyes looked like they were filling with tears.

"Perhaps. I don't know. But we cannot let them get to the stone. If they reach it... If they use it, they could find one of the slumbering dragon-gods. Or, they could find Morrigan's child."

Grimly, Alistair pressed on, speaking faster.

"When she left, Morrigan swore an oath to me, that neither she nor her child would ever again enter the borders of Ferelden. But if the darkspawn know about the stone, it's possible they know other things too."

_Like where Morrigan went after the Blight, or that her child is Urthemiel reborn._

"I need you to find her and call her back. Or..." He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, warding off the headache that threatened there. "Or if that is not possible, convince her to seek amnesty in Orlais. The Wardens there should protect her, even if..."

_Even if it means admitting what we did._

For ten years he had hidden the true reason he and Neria had survived the Archdemon's defeat. The Wardens of Orlais and the Anderfels had never accepted his explanations for the event, but his resolute silence had finally ceased their more open questions. He smiled darkly, picturing the rash of inquiries Morrigan would receive were she to seek their protection.

"I cannot let them find Morrigan. And I know she would never trust me to give her the news myself, if I could even find her. She made me swear I wouldn't come searching for her, that I would never see..."

Leliana placed a hand on his arm and squeezed gently.

"It is all right, Alistair. I will find her, and the child."

"I..." He could think of nothing to say, and instead drew Leliana to him in a grateful hug. "Thank you."

"But, I will ask of you that while I am gone, you ensure Bryce's safety, and that of Fergus."

He nodded fiercely.

"I swear it."

Leliana took his arm as they left the kitchen and walked together to the castle's main hall.

Fergus was sitting at one of the dining tables, sharing a round of ale with some of the crown soldiers and bouncing Bryce on his knee, as Neria was clearly trying to lighten the mood by finishing up a ribald story about a nug, a badger, and a bar of soap. The teyrn's hearty laugh turned to a happy smile as his wife entered the room. Hopping up from his seat with Bryce in one arm, he made his way over to her and kissed her cheek.

"Will you join us for dinner, my dear? Or would you rather get to bed early?"

Alistair and Neria both smiled at Fergus' baldfaced invitation, though the Warden mage's smile, like his own, failed to reach her eyes.

It was Leliana who stepped easily into the breach, beaming at Fergus, Alistair and Neria alike. She led her husband back to the dining table, sitting close to him on the bench, and pouring more ale for the assembled company.

"A light meal, my husband, then I must take my leave. Please tell the captain of the Giselle that I will be ready to sail on the morning tide."

"You're sailing to Orlais? But the next diplomatic visit isn't for another six months." Fergus' voice fell in surprise and disappointment, but Leliana gave him a ready smile.

"The king has a special appointment for me, love. And it will give me a chance to use my too-neglected talents of persuasion and intrigue, no?" Her voice was warm and airy, and Alistair felt another, far more genuine smile cross his face as he marveled at how easily Leliana was able to lighten any mood.

"Oh, I don't know," Fergus said, calling for more ale and a fresh platter of food from the kitchens, "you use your powers of persuasion often enough for me, my love."

They ate again, for Fergus was all too eager to display the finest cheeses and ales of Highever, and talked of lighter things. Then Neria and Leliana left to put Bryce to bed, and, Alistair knew, to speak more about the godstone. Alistair and Fergus discussed the coming day over a last tankard of ale, before the teyrn led the way to the castle guest quarters and said goodnight.

Eager to rest his aching legs after the long days of travel, Alistair opened the door to his room.

Neria was sitting in a chair next to the fireplace, hands clasped about her knees as she stared at the glowing embers. She looked up as he entered, but if she saw the surprise on his face, she made no signal. Instead, she frowned, and then looked darkly back at the hearth.

"Do you ever regret what we did?"

The question startled him in its bluntness, though he knew immediately what she was asking. Slowly, wincing at the pain in his tired legs, Alistair sat on the edge of the guest bed, allowing his gaze to wander, like hers, to the fire.

"Oh, I regret so many things." He said, smiling bitterly as he pictured Duncan's face, Anora's last smile, the first time Wynne fell down while learning to walk and he wasn't there to catch her. Of course he regretted that night before battle. Even ten years later he couldn't think about it without feeling the familiar taste of ashes on his tongue, or the creeping chill along his spine.

But, he laughed grimly to himself, that regret had paled over time. And in its place had grown a bitterness he had never expected to feel, at not knowing what had become of that child - whether it had Morrigan's eyes, or his own hair which still stuck up in the front. What its first word had been, and when it had taken its first steps. What dreams it had, what plans and hopes for the future.

Many times in his dreams over the years, he would picture Wynne and the child playing together, weaving flower chains, chasing butterflies, and going on wild adventures to defeat pirates and brigands in the shadows of the palace library. And then he would remember what Morrigan's child was, and the dream always faded.

Slowly, he shook his head.

"I think it's past the time when either of us should feel regret over that. Morrigan was true to her word. And whatever we did - whatever we... made... well, it hasn't aided the darkspawn. Or caused another Blight. Not yet."

Neria looked thoughtful.

"All the more reason to safeguard the Vhen'talennahr."

As if the words were a spell releasing releasing her from her thoughts, she nodded.

"I will go speak to my lieutenants and prepare the halla for the journey."

"Neria--"

He stopped, unsure what he even meant to say.

"Good night."


	17. Pieces

Leliana sailed on the morning tide, carrying with her the trappings and equipment to pose both as a noble lady or a bard, as the need demanded. She and Alistair had both agreed that the fewer people who knew about Morrigan's child the better, outside of the Grey Wardens themselves. And so the teyrna would arrive in Val Royeaux acting in her usual role as diplomat and emissary of Ferelden. Alistair had even penned a letter to Empress Celene, requesting a reinstatement of their trade agreement, should Leliana need the Empress' help in her search.

Fergus had commissioned another ship for the Free Marches, but the captain was completing repairs, and would not be ready to sail for another two days. So today, Fergus, Alistair, Neria and Bryce accompanied Leliana and her handmaidens to the docks.

Fergus held his wife close, kissing her brilliant hair.

"Oh, Alistair," he sighed, as he and Leliana parted, "if you were anyone else, I'd refuse your request. But I know my wife is the best rogue you could ask for."

"I won't send her into danger, my friend," Alistair said, "I promise."

"Don't worry, husband. I promise I shall stay away from the Revered Mother, should my path take me to Val Royeaux. And besides, I am sure Emeline and Sophie are eager to show off their skills, yes?"

She smiled at her attendants, twin elf sisters who had joined Leliana's service during her years in Orlais. Alistair knew these women had helped Leliana bring justice to Marjolaine, and though he had never met them before, he could see why now. Like Leliana, both women held themselves gracefully, doing justice to every silk ribbon and glimmering jewel on their court dresses. But beneath their stately appearance, he could just see the daggers sheathed in their boots, or the poisoned darts concealed in the lace frills of their sleeves. Leliana would be well-prepared for any trouble her search might give her.

_Though I hope she has no need to use any of it._

Leliana gave Alistair and Neria each a smiling hug, before kissing her husband again and turning to go.

Bryce began to cry as Leliana boarded the ship, flailing his chubby fists and kicking at his father, as Fergus shook his head and blew a final kiss to his wife. Then, half laughing, half smiling in sympathy, Fergus turned to his son.

"Hey now, don't cry little man. I know how you feel, for I feel it too, every time she leaves." He held the toddler firmly in both arms, kissing the boy's ruddy forehead.

"But you know, she always comes back."

#

With their sea voyage delayed, Neria's Wardens had turned out into the sun-drenched castle courtyard for exercise. At first, they stood apart from the crown soldiers and Fergus' men, sparring with one another, their elven blades whirling. But by mid-day the Green Griffons, as Fergus began calling them, had broken their formations and integrated easily with the other troops. Groups of men, dwarves and elves scattered in easy bunches across the training fields, practicing archery or hand-to-hand combat. When Fergus broke their training for a mid-day meal, brought outside in baskets and barrels of ale since the day was so fine, Alistair was pleased to see the previous tensions had melted away under the summer sun, and that the Dalish, soldiers and teyrn's men alike were enjoying the light-hearted chatter which Fergus and his entourage so easily supplied.

Bryce was a feature at the mid-day meal, for it seemed every soldier present took it upon themselves to make the toddler forget his mother's absence. He was given the sweetest strawberries, and the freshest cream, and even allowed to approach Shann, the gentle halla matriarch, and pet her nose.

When the time came for Bryce's afternoon nap, Alistair asked Fergus to grant him a sparring session. His legs and arm still pained him, and he could feel the weakness there, but that, he told himself, was all the more reason not to get out of practice. Fergus accepted, grinning, and led the way to the racks of practice armor he had brought outside for the day's training. Fergus chose a worn set of Cousland chainmail for the bout, while Alistair selected the lighter weight of an aged set of splintmail. It took only a few minutes before they had donned swords and shields, and were walking out to a corner of the dusty courtyard.

Fergus saluted, and Alistair returned the gesture, smiling, as they circled each other.

"Always the gentleman, Fergus?" He prodded good-naturedly.

"Of course, Your Majesty," Fergus said, making the first attack, a ringing glance off of Alistair's shield followed by a quick thrust of his blade which Alistair parried, smiling.

"Though my wife has taught me that being a gentleman is a far more diverse arena than I had ever suspected."

They circled again, the dust rising from their footsteps, trading attacks and parries, both men slowly building the momentum of combat, as Alistair tested his new-found footing.

He had sparred with Fergus many times since becoming king, the teyrn's ready friendship and steadfast devotion to the crown coupled with Amaranthine's proximity to Highever making them an easy pair in politics and combat. After Fergus' marriage to Leliana, the teyrn's skill had grown steadily, clearly benefiting from the combat training Leliana provided. His attacks were faster than Alistair's own, despite still using a shield and sword, and he was always moving, shifting weight and balance, never attacking from the same side twice.

Sweating beneath his heavy armor, his limbs complaining from the exertion, Alistair focused his mind, summoning forth the clarity and single-mindedness he had learned as a templar, surging forward to meet Fergus' next attack with a heavy triple blow of his shield and a pivoting downward slash of his blade.

But Fergus had dropped to the dirt, rolling out of range of his sword and releasing the straps from his own shield arm. In another movement the teyrn was on his feet again, pulling a dagger from his belt and switching to a lower, looser stance. He did not attack, simply waited for Alistair's next advance, and when it came he ducked and rolled away again, landing a glancing blow on Alistair's sword arm.

Alistair widened his own stance, sweeping sideways with his shield against Fergus' longsword, and making a swift undercut below range of his dagger hand, landing a blow of his own on the teyrn's leg.

A muted cry sounded from several mouths nearby, and Alistair realized they had gathered an audience as the fight went on. The soldiers sparring on the practice field had stopped their exercises, and were grouped along the walls of the courtyard, watching the new spectacle. Alistair was on the verge of shaking his head, when he caught Fergus' eye. Amusement sparkled there like a sprite, and together, teyrn and king shared a grin, nodding together as they reached the same decision.

The lightning speed, Fergus began a new assault, longsword and dagger cutting the air in two before raining hail upon Alistair's shield. Alistair grunted, throwing back the attack with the full force of his shield, and turning his sword to parry the teyrn's next attack from the side. But Fergus was out of reach again, twisting and tilting to find a weak point before pouncing again like a hunting mabari. Alistair blocked the teyrn's longsword, shield ringing, but Fergus' dagger slashed under his guard. He hissed as the blade cut flesh beneath a hole in his practice armor, but spun backward, mirroring Fergus' own turn, and raising his longsword to meet the other man's.

Their blades clashed together, twin metals hissing as they pushed against each other, their teeth gritting in strained smiles, looking for an opening. Fergus' leg lashed out below the barrier of the shield, just as Alistair kicked out with his own foot to break the stalemate. And then it happened. Alistair felt the plates of their care-worn armor lock together as they kicked against one another and began to laugh. Hopelessly tangled, they fell together, sprawling sideways in the dirt, swords landing in a clatter next to them.

"Well," Fergus said, spitting sand from his mouth, as Alistair, half pinned beneath his own shield, tried to separate his own armor from the teyrn's, "I suppose that settles it then. The splintmail wins it."

The crowd around them dissolved into amused laughter, as Fergus and Alistair, covered in sweat and dust, pulled themselves to their feet and clasped hands.

"I do believe the lady teyrna has shown you how to be a rogue, Fergus," Alistair smiled. "Leliana bested me many times with that move, too."

"Then she's bested us both, my friend, for she at least would have gone into a match with a decent set of armor."

He pointed at the gaping hole now torn in Alistair's splintmail during their scuffle.

"I suppose it's time to consign that old mess to the scrap-heap."

"Oh, I don't think it's time to retire the king just yet, Lord Fergus," another voice answered them.

Neria had approached, bandages ready in her hands as she waited for both men to climb out of their bedraggled armor. Then she inspected the teyrn for injuries before turning to Alistair.

"I'm glad to see you're healing well," she said, binding off his arm, a quirk of amusement turning the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you," he said, smiling at her sudden humor and the light-heartedness of the day.

She smiled back, her eyes roguish and sparkling, before turning to join the soldiers and Wardens partaking of yet another feast from the castle kitchens.

#

The next day dawned early and bright, all clouds chased away by the hot sun. The castle lay languid in the heat, and Alistair, tired from the his skirmish and the late-night revels of the day before, rose later than he had planned. He penned a letter to Wynne, telling her to be on guard for Antivan brigands in the palace drawing room, before wandering through the shadier of the castle's corridors and out into the gardens overlooking the training fields.

A half-squadron of crown soldiers and the more determined of Fergus' men were sparring in the courtyard, but it seemed that most were either indoors or seeking shade elsewhere. Alistair could not help grinning when a handful of Dalish Wardens approached the sweaty skirmishers, bearing a number of halla with them. With some joking and laughter, the Wardens managed to convince three soldiers to take a chance at riding the strange beasts, and soon the motley group was walking across the fields to a line of trees in the distance.

With a sudden will to stretch his legs, coupled with the hope of finding cooler shade within the forest, Alistair set off to follow them. He went slowly, feeling the sun bake out the last aches and pains from the day before, while sending the sweat running down his back.

As he had hoped, the forest was dark and cool compared to the heat of the castle and its surrounds. He walked for a few minutes, listening for a brook or stream, and was rewarded to find a small pond, shaded from the sun by the arms of some silver birches. From some distance away, he could hear the sounds of some of the crown soldiers, and perhaps a laugh or two from some of the Dalish Wardens. He sat against the trunk of one of the trees, and shut his eyes. Instinctively, he searched outward, senses reaching for any sense of the taint, almost smiling to himself as he realized the darkspawn would be the perfect antidote to the laziness of a summer day. But nothing answered. The forest was safe.

He sighed softly, glad for a moment of stillness, before opening his eyes again and watching the sunlight filter through the dappled leaves.

On the far side of the pond, a lone deer had wandered down to the water, and after listening intently for a moment, its ears flicking back and forth, it lowered its head to drink. It hadn't seen him, hidden as he was behind the birches, or it paid him no mind. Either way, he was glad to watch it in silence, feeling the sweat cool on his skin.

Alistair was just as shocked as the deer appeared to be when an arrow lodged in the creature's chest. With a cry the deer collapsed thrashing on the ground, as Alistair tensed, standing as quietly as he could, looking for the attacker.

A green-clad figure emerged from the trees, moving swiftly to the deer, an iron dagger shining in her hands. Then Neria knelt over the deer like a shadow, moving deftly as she performed the killing blow. Immediately the frantic calls ended, and the deer's legs kicked no more.

"Ma serannas, lethallan. May Falon-Din guide your spirit to the forests of the Beyond. And there, may you know peace."

The elf mage bowed her head, eyes closed. Then, sharply, as though she could see through the trees that obscured him, she spoke.

"You may come out now, Alistair. I promise I won't shoot you too."

_Maker. _He sighed, releasing breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. With leaves rustling and twigs snapping under his feet, Alistair crossed to the opposite side of the pond.

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling as though he had stumbled upon something he should not have seen. Awkwardly, he sat down beside her.

"I didn't realize there was anyone here."

"Nor should you have, or I would be a poor hunter indeed." She tilted her head, wiping her bloody blade on her armor, looking for all the world to him like a wild elf, unknown and alien.

And suddenly he could not help laughing aloud, head lifted to the sky like a boy, as he remembered that this was the same woman who had shared his food, his stories, his battles, and Maker knew how many other things, before they ran off to defeat the darkspawn and end the Blight.

"What?" Neria watched him, eyebrow quirked.

"It's just so strange," he smiled. "Seeing you, now, I would never have imagined that you, a mage of the Circle, would look at home in leathers, hunting wild beasts."

He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing her as he had once known her, angry and shivering, completely amazed that Ferelden could contain so much rain and mud and wild savage creatures and _darkspawn_, things she had only read about in books at the Tower, furious at the muck and blood and grime covering her mage robes and smearing her face.

"And yet, here you are, and it suits you better than... well, better than I would have expected."

_You found something out there. Something more than the books and the rigid lectures at the Circle. Something beyond..._

For a moment her face was unreadable, and he thought yet again how hard it was to tell her expressions from behind the tattoos on her cheeks. Then Neria nodded and smiled.

"It's certainly a step up in the world for me, after being a thorn in the side of the templars for so long."

"Oh, you were never a thorn..." he blurted without thinking, before realizing she was speaking of something else entirely. He fell silent, feeling the color rise in his cheeks.

For a moment they gazed at the lake together in silence. Then she turned to him, a wry smile on her face.

"Would you like some of the deer's heart? The Dalish believe that it has great restorative powers."

"Oh, no," he said quickly, trying to keep his voice calm, "I ate a big lunch."

"Very well, suit yourself. More for me, then." She grinned at him with a flash of unmistakable mischief in her eyes, before returning her gaze to the rippling waters of the pond.

"Hmm." He said, shaking his head at himself for rising to her bait.

_It's good to know some things haven't changed._

"So, a hunter of deer now, not just a slayer of ogres and demons." He leaned back in the grass. "Why didn't you use magic to kill it?"

She had used magic for everything when he met her, from lighting fires to cleaning her clothes, to cooking their dinners, as though every step she took away from the Tower made her more liberated, safe from the templars and the rules of the Circle. Free for the first time ever, she told him, to use magic as it was meant to be used. But now, she bore an ironbark hunting bow, hefting it as easily as it it too were made by magic.

"Most of my magic makes the meat taste strange. Not to mention that in Arlathan, the children would be exposed to the energy of my spells. I learned to hunt this way to avoid contaminating them."

"Children? Of the Grey Wardens?" His voice rose with curiosity, eager to unlock more of the puzzle she held before him, a ten-year-old mystery of Joinings and travels and rebuilding he had not seen.

"Some. Most are orphans or children of clan members who have not taken the Joining but who wish to serve with the Wardens. Like Zevran."

Her voice was even, her expression neutral, but something lurked there, in the flash of her eyes.

"Like Zevran?" He repeated, keeping his voice low, trying to pose the question as delicately as he could. Neria paused, her face unreadable.

"Indeed, Zevran has a child in Arlathan. Her name is Anielle."

"And you?" He spoke without thinking, and winced as a shadow fell over her face.

"No." She whispered, eyes dim.

And as if she had just slammed a door between them, her face hardened and she stood, lifting the carcass of the deer as she did so, before and nodding to him stiffly.

"I must prepare this for the evening meal. Good day, Your Majesty."

#

They stared at each other across the table, silent as the dining hall filled with the scent of roasting venison, and those assembled, Highever soldiers and crown soldiers and Wardens alike, remarked at the treat of having yet another grand meal. Fergus was in his element, serving wines and ale and cheeses and soups spiced from the castle herb gardens, before carving the deer himself and presenting the first two pieces, smiling, to Alistair and Neria.

"May this be the last of our troubles," he said firmly, smiling at them, and raising his glass in a toast. "Now that the king and the Hero of Ferelden have joined forces again, may the darkspawn know that their days are numbered."

"Hear hear!" The room rumbled, as eager soldiers drank to fulfill Fergus' wish.

Neria smiled back at the teyrn, nodding at his toast and sipping from her mug. But when Alistair looked at her, her face fell, and he knew she shared his doubts. Tomorrow, the Dalish would take the godstone to the Free Marches. But the stone was only one piece of the mystery which surrounded them. He sighed and took another drink from his tankard, hoping that somewhere in Orzammar, Oghren was finding more answers.

The revels were dying down and most of the soldiers had returned to their rooms when Fergus' chief of staff entered the main hall.

"Your Grace... Your Majesty, a messenger has arrived from Orzammar. He says it's urgent."

"Show him in." Fergus nodded.

The soldier entered, his armor travel-stained, though he did not look injured. Alistair recognized him as one of Oghren's soldiers.

"Lieutenant Tavers, isn't it? Is everything all right in Orzammar?"

"Your Majesty, the general is headed to the Deep Roads. He told me to give you this. Said you'd know what it meant."

Tavers took a leather satchel from his shoulder and placed it on the table with a thud.

Alistair opened the satchel, grunting with surprise as a heavy dwarven mace slid out of the leather and rolled onto the table. His face darkened as he saw the dried blood on the head, and the stamp of the house of a Paragon on the pommel.

"That's Branka's."


	18. The Maker Smiles

N.B. OK, my disclaimer: This kinda started out as an April Fool's joke that decided to um... not be a joke. So if you're surprised at where this went: yeah. Me too. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Gripping the mace tightly, Alistair walked back from the Highever dock, as the last of the ship's sails - the Manticore, newly-repaired and bearing twenty of Neria's Wardens sworn to protect the vhen'tallenahr - vanished over the horizon bound for the Free Marches.

He shook his head. He had hoped to feel relief at this moment, as the godstone was carried away from Ferelden to a safer port, and one Neria remained convinced would ultimately help the Dalish Wardens in their fight against the darkspawn.

But the dull iron weapon in his hand had removed all sense of satisfaction, replacing it with an empty echoing in his head, as he tried for the second time in a decade to figure out why a Paragon's arms had managed to find their way topside, in the hands of the darkspawn.

_We left them at the Anvil._

After Branka's death they had made a... well, it could hardly have been called a cairn, for there was nothing in it. There had, he shuddered to remember, been no body to recover when the Paragon had taken her final steps, casting herself into the lava below the ruined Anvil. Against Oghren's shock and grief they had done the only thing they could, building an empty grave and placing within it the shield and mace that Branka had carried.

_And then we sealed it._

He remembered the magic flowing from Neria's palms as she smoothed the earth, reshaping it until the individual stones were blended together and became one, a single slab of rock protecting the memory of the Paragon. A tombstone where Oghren carved the last honors of Branka's house.

What force could have opened the spell-sealed tomb they had made? The path they had cut to the Anvil was drenched in blood, and upon returning to Orzammar Bhelen had pronounced Caridin's legacy lost forever - the roads leading from Bownammar were cut off, buried beneath rubble at the edict of the dwarven king. The golems that remained had joined the service of the Orzammar guard, but no one, either dwarf or golem, was ever permitted to venture as deeply within the Deep Roads as the Anvil again.

_Or so Bhelen said._

It had been years since Alistair had ventured to Orzammar to meet his ally. Now, absently hefting the mace from hand to hand, he questioned his own decision to remain so removed from dwarven politics, when clearly something had occurred which Bhelen had never told him.

He stopped as he reached the main road back to the castle and slung Branka's weapon into the satchel on his shoulder. Neria and Fergus stood together at the dock's edge, discussing a detachment of Wardens Leliana had requested be left behind in Highever. Fergus had just started to protest when Alistair caught up to them.

"I swore to Leliana that I'd keep Highever safe, my friend." He nodded at Neria. "We may have protected the godstone itself, but there is still a grave threat here. I will not head for Orzammar without leaving a detachment of Wardens here to safeguard your people."

Fergus threw his hands up and shook his head.

"Very well then, Alistair, though I think you're worrying too much. Highever can stand on its own, or so my father would always have liked to believe." He trailed off for a moment, looking past them to the dust on the road, memories clearly playing across his face as he grimaced.

"But he did not see the Ostagar that I did, nor did he have a trained bard and master of persuasion as his wife and partner."

He held out his hand and Alistair took it, knowing the other man's gaze to hold more than just the frustration of being assigned a guard he had not requested, or being forced to remember a grim chapter of his life during the Blight. There was an offer of his own in Fergus' eyes, and gently, Alistair shook his head.

"Gladly would I have you by my side, Fergus. But should anything happen, Maker knows I need you here, for so many things..."

He did not have to ask aloud for the most important of them all, for he knew that Fergus and Leliana would be loving parents to Wynne, and would raise her as their own: pirates, Norice, caramels and all.

Face softening, Fergus nodded, giving his hand a last firm squeeze before they parted.

"And besides, Your Grace," Neria said, "my Wardens will be happy to teach you how to ride the halla during their stay."

"Well, with an offer like that, how can I refuse?" Fergus smiled wryly at her, shaking his head.

Together, they walked back to the castle, going their separate ways to finish packing or planning. Alistair wrote a last letter to Wynne, advising her to look for brigands in the palace study, and to take care during her swordplay lessons. Then he donned armor, sword and shield, and met the departing Wardens and crown soldiers in the castle courtyard, waving a last goodbye to Fergus as he passed the teyrn's chambers.

Neria was leaving twelve of her Wardens at Highever, along with those halla that had not accompanied the Dalish back to the Free Marches. Nine Wardens, and Neria herself, would join Alistair's crown squadron to meet Oghren in Orzammar.

Alistair stood at the edge of the courtyard, waiting for his soldiers to assemble. Neria stood next to him, adjusting the straps on her armor. The sun was already baking into the stones of the courtyard, making him tired in the heat. He didn't notice the snuffling sounds behind him, and started when something pressed firmly against his shoulder.

Neria laughed at his surprise, and from behind him, Alistair heard an answering whuffing sound, as though something else was laughing.

He turned, and found himself looking into the silver face of Shann, the halla matriarch. She stared at him, snuffling softly, before turning to look at Neria, and once again Alistair knew there was a conversation taking place that he could not hear.

Neria's face changed from amusement to confusion and back again. Then, half smiling, half laughing, she patted the halla's great head, murmuring, "If that's what you want."  
Shann bobbed her head slightly and nuzzled Alistair's shoulder again.

"What..." He didn't know what to say, confused at the hidden joke between elf and halla.

"She's chosen you," Neria replied, looking from Shann to Alistair and back again. "Shann has selected you as her vhen'lethallan."

"W-what?"

Other Wardens had gathered around them now, watching the scene. Some looked on curiously, their expressions lost beneath their colorful tattoos. But others smiled at him, the griffons on their armor flashing in the sun as though those mythical beasts were laughing at him too.

"It's only happened once before, in all the songs of the northern Dales," Thea, one of Neria's lieutenants said, sharing her Commander's smile. "It is a rare thing, truly, for a halla to choose to bond with a shem."

"You mean..." He looked back at Shann, peering into her golden eyes in confusion.

"Shann has chosen you as a friend of the people. She has elected to become your protector in the Deep Roads."

"I--" He had no idea what to say. He turned from Neria to Shann, and back again.

Neria smiled again, nodding her head toward the halla matriarch.

"Listen. You'll see."

Brow furrowing, Alistair looked back at those golden eyes, trying to ignore the amused smiles and quiet laughter of the Dalish around them, and waited.

The presence he had felt from Shann on the road to Highever once again asserted itself in his mind. Gently, like someone holding out a hand to greet him, he felt Shann's own thoughts touch his own.

_Why?_ He barely had to imagine the word before he felt her taking it in and returning to him with an answer, quietly unfolding her own memories and emotions before him.

He saw as though in a dream, Shann in a forest clearing, kneeling before a younger halla, nuzzling what he suddenly understood as her own child as it took its first few steps on its own.  
As though Shann were speaking to him in words, he could hear her pride and protectiveness. And when the memory faded, he could feel the lingering emotions, withdrawing slowly, like sand swirling away in a stream.

"She wants to protect me?" He looked at Neria. "But why? The Deep Roads are no place for a... a halla."

The elven Warden shook her head.

"Don't ask me. Ask her."

Again he looked at Shann, gazing into her eyes. Tentatively, he reached out his thoughts to touch the connection.

_But why would you do this?_

At once an image filled his mind: a war-party of darkspawn was running through a forest, the taint following them like a tide, twisting the trees and bracken until the forest lay black and wounded before them. In a clearing of the forest a halla stood, wounded, a pile of genlocks at its feet.

Shann was the largest halla Alistair had ever seen, but this halla was even bigger, a massive buck with ornate, twisting horns and flashing amber eyes. As the darkspawn fell upon him he cried aloud, lashing out with hooves and horns. The genlocks and their hurlock overlords surrounded him, tearing at his flesh and beating at his legs with wooden mallets, until the great halla fell to the ground, overwhelmed, screaming one final cry which was soon lost beneath the guttural calls of the darkspawn hunters.

The memory faded, leaving a wave of sadness in its place, and Alistair reeled, suddenly dizzy from the onslaught of images.

"Shann lost her lifemate to the darkspawn." Neria said quietly, and Alistair heard the halla snuffle quietly beside him, again reaching out to nuzzle his shoulder. Before he could think about what he was doing, he reached out, running his fingers down Shann's silver nose in a movement that felt almost like instinct.

Something which had been lurking beneath the surface of his senses now suddenly clicked into place as he ran his fingers through the halla's glossy coat.

"You bear the taint," he murmured to her softly, feeling the familiar snarl lurking within her blood.

He turned to Neria.

"How... why does she--"

Neria nodded her head, answering his half-spoken question.

"Shann has undergone the Joining."

"But... I never... how can a... a halla go through the Joining?" He kept his voice low, trying not to attract the attention of Fergus' soldiers, who were helping the crown lieutenants load the last of their travel supplies into their packs.

"Do you remember that story we heard in the Brecilian Forest? How elves once rode upon the backs of the halla when they went to war?"

"Yes, vaguely."

"As you know, our Wardens do the same. But because the taint kills most animals within days of exposure, it would be almost impossible to do this with any ordinary animal. Our halla companions are those who have either survived the taint on their own, or who have Joined. The protection the ritual offers them is the same: Shann is immune to the taint."

Shann's presence in his mind flickered again, sending forth an immediate answer to Alistair's surprise and revulsion. Her willingness and understanding flooded him until it was almost as though she were speaking the words aloud.

_Choice._

"It was your choice to do this?" He repeated. He was stunned, and in more ways than one. He had never realized how deeply the connection between the Dalish and their halla ran, nor had he imagined that other creatures could survive the taint without becoming transformed, like blight wolves or bereskarn, or the tainted spiders he had seen during the blight.

And yet here was proof, standing before him - a massive halla with the taint in her veins, but mastered, just like a Grey Warden. And not just an animal, but a creature of intelligence, capable of thought, memory, and...

_Humor._

"So you really want to do this?" He asked Shann, as Neria stood beside him and the Dalish Wardens broke into proud smiles. "You want to follow me into the Deep Roads as a... as a Warden?"

Acceptance and happiness filled him as Shann nodded her head, then called aloud, trumpeting to the sky.

Alistair smiled and shook his head.

"Very well, Shann. I welcome your service as Ferelden's newest Grey Warden."

Somewhere, Alistair thought to himself, as the Wardens and crown soldiers left Highever and turned west toward the Frostbacks, with Shann carrying him smoothly like some strange twist between a surrogate mother and an honor guard, the Maker must be laughing.

###

The terrain roughened as they moved west: the north road becoming tree-lined and skirted by rough hillocks and rock-strewn ridges. They were halfway to the Frostbacks when he felt it, that sinister twisting on the edge of his nerves. Everyone paused - the Wardens because of their own reeling senses, his own crown lieutenants because they read the expression of their king. Shann stopped her easy gait and snorted at the wind as Alistair dismounted.

Neria turned to him, her face grim.

"Darkspawn," they whispered together.

Already the Green Griffons who had accompanied them were fanning out along the road, forming a rough circle as they drew bows and blades. Neria stood in the center, magic burning on her fingertips as they waited for battle.

Shann saw them first, rushing back along the road behind Alistair, impaling an advancing genlock on her horns before the creature could reach him. He turned, moving in her wake as more darkspawn poured from the trees and leapt down upon them from the ridge above the road, dispatching any darkspawn who evaded the halla's massive hooves and striking horns.

The sudden whine of an arrow sounded from the ridgeline, and Alistair pivoted reflexively, blocking the missile with his shield. More archers grunted from the trees and he widened his stance, waving his shield like a beacon to protect Shann's flanks. The crown soldiers ran forward to climb the ridge, Basil leading them. Behind them, two of Neria's Wardens shot arrows back into the trees, the grunts and screams of darkspawn testament to their flawless aim.

The sounds of clashing metal and hissing spells echoed along the road behind him, as Neria and her Wardens fought against a second wave of darkspawn which threatened to flank them, cutting off any means of retreat along the road.

Too late did Alistair realize they were surrounded. Shann screamed, an arrow protruding from her shoulder, as one of the crown soldiers along the ridge took a blow to the head and crumpled to the ground. More than a dozen genlocks descended from the trees and charged at the halla, surging around Alistair and the Warden archers, their blades glinting menacingly.  
As though angered by her bleeding shoulder, Shann charged them, her head lowered and horns flashing. She plowed into the darkspawn, impaling or trampling, as Alistair wove alongside her, dispatching those she knocked to the ground, or stunning the stragglers with his shield.

More arrows rained from the trees and he raised his shield to block them from reaching Shann. Basil and his soldiers had reached the top of the ridge and were engaging most of the archers hand-to-hand, but the genlocks outnumbered them, and many still fired at the halla, seeking the biggest target in the battlefield.

Brandishing his shield as though he could draw their fire, Alistair stood in front of Shann, meeting the next volley of arrows. Like a rain of steel the missiles clattered against his shield as three, four, five, six arrows were deflected from their course.

The seventh hit him in the chest, slicing between the plates of his armor, cutting against skin and flesh and bone until it met its mark.

Alistair gasped as the arrow pierced his lung. He recoiled, raising his shield as Shann turned to him, catching him before he fell.

Blinking against the pain, Alistair forced himself to remain standing, as the halla ground the last of the darkspawn to the road beneath her hoof.

"Your Majesty!" Basil cried, pointing along the ridge to where Neria and her Wardens were fighting. A hurlock mage stood there, hands spread and arms waving in the clear stages of summoning a massive spell. All around their party, from the grim-faced Wardens to the horror-stricken men of Denerim, the air crackled, spun, and froze, waiting for the final word from the grunting hurlock.

Alistair reached for the energy to cast a templar spell, but it was no good. The arrow in his chest made even breathing difficult, and pain lanced at his mind until he felt his concentration wavering. The spell fizzled. Raising his shield, he waited for the impact, Shann trumpeting beside him, a call of anger and defiance against the twisted magic.

"Here!" Neria shouted, mana crackling from her fingertips in a death tattoo as she faced the darkspawn emissary. Alistair sensed the shift in the air as an answering surge of pure energy met the hurlock's tainted spell, Neria's own magic churning around them until the very wind smelled like burning lyrium and the sunlight began to turn blue.

Then Neria released her spell in a massive discharge of energy, and all went white around the enemy hurlock in a swirling cloud of air-borne mana. The spell killed the darkspawn mage instantly, burning him in the surge.

Alistair had barely heard its final grunting cry before he collapsed, gasping for air.

Beside him, Shann screamed, cold and hard as steel. There was a pause, when everything seemed to hold its breath. Then Neria, breathing heavily from the battle and the force of her spell, ran towards him along the road. She was already intoning the words of healing magic as she reached him, hands darting over his armor, releasing clasps and loosening straps, pulling at the iron carapace. In one swift movement she lifted off his breastplate, as with her other hand she reached in her belt pouch and produced a bright blue lyrium potion.

Gulping at the little vial she continued her intonations, grasping at the arrow shaft in one hand, and placing her other hand, already mana-charged and glowing, on his bloody skin. Her hand tightened around the arrow shaft as she twisted and pulled, murmuring softly as the mana flowed faster through her fingers.

The arrow broke free in a font of blood that made lieutenant Basil and several other crown soldiers gasp. But Alistair barely had time to register the pain before it was over, and his flesh mended like new-forged iron before his eyes.

With a final tingle of mana, Neria's spell finished, and her arcane murmurs ceased. Still gasping from shock, Alistair inhaled deeply, feeling breath fill his lungs. Nodding with satisfaction, Neria turned to Shann, murmuring another healing spell to tend to the halla's shoulder.

"That was... amazing." Lieutenant Basil said when she had finished healing the halla and a few other injuries among the crown soldiers.

"Indeed it was," Alistair agreed, slowly getting to his feet and looking around them.

With the hurlock emissary, he counted no fewer than forty darkspawn scattered about the road and the nearby trees. They had been outnumbered more than two to one, ambushed and surrounded. But they had prevailed.

"Let's move a bit further down the road and make camp. We should reach Orzammar tomorrow."

_Barring any more interruptions._

They made camp within an hour, finding a clearing and a nearby stream far enough away from the darkspawn for the taint to stop snarling at their senses.

All in all, not a terrible day, Alistair considered, feeling just a slight ache where the arrow had pierced his chest.

He had been lucky, he smiled to himself, watching Shann graze nearby, as Neria lit a roaring campfire with a single arcane word, crown soldiers settled nearby or broke into pairs for night patrol, and elven Wardens appeared out of the night shadows with rabbits and other small game to cook for dinner.

Very lucky.


	19. Shadows of Orzammar

Orzammar was scarcely the same place it had been during the Blight. If his feet had not remembered the path through the Frostback Mountains, Alistair would scarcely have recognized the entrance to the dwarven city.

No longer did the grim statues of the Paragons stand outside the main gates, glaring down upon intruders. And no longer were the massive doors leading into Orzammar proper barred shut for all but those on king's business. Instead, colored tents and brightly-adorned merchant stalls filled the courtyard before the city. The gates were thrown open, and dwarves milled around the stalls and stands, hawking their wares and bartering for goods, as cityfolk and surface dwarves alike wandered in and out of the city as they pleased. Coming closer, Alistair, Neria, Shann, Basil and their party passed stalls selling ale, lichen bread, cave silks, and fresh roasting nug meat, before the crowds grew so thick in the courtyard they were forced to stop and wait for the onlookers around a glass-blowing stand to disperse.

"Market day," Lieutenant Basil muttered beside him. "It figures."

"Market day?"

_A lot has changed while I've been holed up in Denerim. _He sighed to himself, wondering if he shouldn't have been here to see some of it in person. _Not that Bhelen seems to be doing badly these days._

"Yes, Your Majesty," Basil answered, and though he clearly meant to keep his voice quiet, his words sent a ripple of whispers throughout the crowd.

"His Majesty?"

"The human King? Here?"

"Where? Let me see!"

Heads turned, eyes widened and gasps filled the air as Orzammar's dwarves got their first look at Ferelden's king. Alistair had barely had time to dismount from Shann before the crowd enveloped them.

It took them nearly an hour to make their way through the throng of well-wishers, curious onlookers, not-so-innocent bystanders and the occasional pickpocket and reach the inner city doors. By that time, Alistair felt as tired as if he had been fighting darkspawn for an afternoon. He had forgotten how fascinating the spectacle of a new king could be; in the years since his coronation the citizens of Denerim and its surrounds had gotten used to seeing him on the throne, and, thankfully, their initial fervor had died down.

But he was certainly a new king to these dwarves, and was being reminded of it, painfully. His hands had been shaken until they were numb and his ears were ringing with the tumult of the marketplace. He was glad for Shann's support beside him. At least some of the dwarves had been more interested in greeting the halla than they had in him.

"I'm sorry, Ser," Basil said, when they had finally found enough air and open space to breathe. "I didn't mean to--" He winced, looking as though the mad crowds and pressing strangers had all been his fault.

Alistair smiled.

"It's all right, Basil. I should have known we'd cause a stir after being away for so long."

"But the people here are certainly more... effusive in their greetings than they are in Denerim."

"Well, at least we know they think I have a handsomer chin than Bhelen does."

"Is that what you heard?" Neria said softly, her mouth quirking in a knowing smile, "I thought they were talking about something _altogether _different."

Shann made a strange snorting cough beside him: halla laughter. Shaking his head, Alistair turned to lead the party to the main gates before any of them could see his smile.

The inner city roads were less crowded, as most of the city-dwellers enjoyed the market outside. The party dispersed, glad to have a few moments at ease. Basil and most of the soldiers who had accompanied them wandered among the less crowded stalls along the Commons, though a few more adventurous Wardens had ventured into Tapster's in search of ale.

As they reached the entrance to the Diamond Quarter, Neria paused.

"I'm going to talk with some of the merchants, maybe refresh our supplies."

"Are you sure you don't want to meet the king again? Say hello?"

He chuckled at Neria's grimace, remembering only too keenly the words she had traded with Bhelen the last time they had left Orzammar.

"No, I think both of us will probably do better to avoid such an _intimate _reunion."

She shook her head, patting Shann's shoulder as the halla whuffed in confusion.

"Oh, it's a long story," she said, turning to lead the halla away to rejoin her Wardens. "A long story."

###

Like the rest of Orzammar, Bhelen's palace was hardly recognizable beneath the wild colors, lavish textiles, exotic artwork, and strange gadgets from the surface. In fact, the king's chambers more resembled those of an itinerant merchant, or a strange inventor, than a sovereign.

One thing remained constant, however. As he sat before a table covered in maps and diagrams of the Deep Roads, and bearing a pair of daggers covered in what looked suspiciously like blood, Bhelen Aeducan had lost none of the clever glow in his eyes, nor the calculating half-smile on his face as Alistair entered.

"Alistair," he said simply, nodding to the chair at the table across from him.

"Bhelen," Alistair replied, trying not to smile as he took a seat. Meeting Orzammar's king was much like sitting down with an assassin to play a game of Antivan roulette, he thought to himself. You never knew all the cards in play.

"I trust you had a pleasant journey here."

"Oh, it was mild enough, despite all the darkspawn."

Both kings shared a humorless laugh.

"Oghren left three days ago. I told him to send me a messenger if anything occurred. So far, I've had no news from him."

"That's a good sign, I hope." He wouldn't even allow himself to dwell on any other possibility.

"Indeed."

Bhelen poured a goblet of wine for Alistair and another for himself. They drank for a moment in silence.

"I understand the darkspawn have been making raids on the surface?"

"Yes. Well, two main raids. Five years ago they attacked our Wardens at Vigil's Keep. And lately they... they destroyed the Tower of Magi." Alistair took another sip of wine, trying to quell the burning memory.

"The point is, both times they attacked, we found... evidence that the darkspawn had somehow come into contact with..."

"Branka's remains. I know. Oghren told me as much, and I had no answers to give him, either."

Bhelen rose and paced the length of the table, his face unreadable.

"All I do know is that the Deep Roads have changed since the Blight. The darkspawn aren't the mindless creatures they used to be. They are cunning, dare I even say strategic opponents. My men tell me that some of them can talk in our tongue, that they have even approached our patrols to speak."

"They talk?"

"Riddles in the darkness, mostly. Threats, ramblings. But each one of them has also mentioned a leader. Some architect of the darkspawn plans. Something intelligent, that guides them to their purpose. Whatever the situation is in the Deep Roads, it's larger than any of us realizes."

"Architect?" Bhelen's news echoed in Alistair's head until it spun. None of it made sense. None of it followed what he had been told about the darkspawn, what he had seen them capable of during the Blight.

"But why? Why would they care about a Paragon? How could they even have found her..."

_Her tomb, lost in Caridin's void-forge. Where no one ever should have gone._

"I have a theory," Bhelen said, turning and continuing his measured pacing. "Two years ago I sent men on a long-term reconnaissance mission, past Ortan Thaig. They were to scout as far as Bownammar, collect whatever information they could find on darkspawn activity, and return. But they never came back."

He stopped pacing and sat at the table again, drinking from his goblet before he continued.

"Three weeks ago, one of them returned. He was... corrupted by the darkspawn. But before he died, he mentioned a few things which gave me concern."

"But..." Alistair, shook his head. Bownammar. The Dead Trenches. Ruins completely overtaken by the darkspawn and abandoned by the dwarves. Even the Legion of the Dead no longer ventured that deeply into the lost dwarven empire. There was no reason to send anyone there, even for scouting. Unless...

_He can't have sent men to reclaim the Anvil?_

A sudden, burning anger filled him as he pictured the sheer sacrifice involved in repeating that dark chapter of dwarven history, in making another army of golems, as a river of blood ran red through the Deep Roads.

"Are you saying what I think you are?"

"That I sent men to find Caridin's greatest creation? That I sought to reform the army that protected Orzammar in its time of greatest need?"

Bhelen's eyes flashed.

"What choice would you have made, Alistair, were your people at such a risk? Did you know the darkspawn actually breached Orzammar?"

"What?"

And just as suddenly, he felt his anger being eclipsed by shock at Bhelen's words.

"N-no, I... I didn't. When?"

"Three years ago. They crawled up from the lower tunnels in Dust Town. We lost much to drive them back."

For once, the dwarven king's face dimmed, and Alistair saw a momentary glimmer of pain in his eyes.

"I--"

His voice quavered as the righteous outrage that had filled him flickered and died. Wynne's smiling face filled his mind, followed by the faces of other friends and loved ones. Eamon, Simon, Oghren, Fergus, Neria and Shann, more and more, all marching through his thoughts in a long line of honor and love, duty and obligation.

_Of course I would, to save them. I would do any--_

He cut his thoughts off with a shake of his head.

"Well. Tell me what he told you, then. I'll need to be prepared if I'm to head into the Deep Roads."

He turned to the maps and figures lying on the table and Bhelen did the same. For an instant, their eyes met, and Alistair knew that both of them shared the same expression.

###

"Copper for your thoughts? Did Bhelen have bad news?"

Neria met him as Alistair emerged from the Diamond Quarter, Shann beside her.

"Of course. When darkspawn are involved, is there news of any other kind?" His voice came out harsher than he had meant it, and he shook his head.

"I'm sorry. He just gave me a lot to think about."

"That sounds familiar."

He sighed, looking out over the city Commons, and down, to the entrance to the Deep Roads, as the Wardens and crown soldiers collected their packs and provisions for the long journey to meet Oghren.

Shann nuzzled his shoulder, and Alistair ran his fingers through her thick, silver coat automatically as he tried to get his thoughts into order.

"When you were... when you've recruited your Wardens, have your Joinings gone well?"

If the question was strange to her Neria gave no signal.

"Our Joinings have been unusually successful, yes. I attribute that to the ease of recruiting without the Blight."

"You just... you seem to have made an army out there, in the Free Marches. And here we're... well, we've been..."

_It's been hard._

He felt pressed, as through a great weight was bearing down on him, a roiling tide of destruction and death and unanswered mysteries. And suddenly he could not suppress a shudder as he looked at the gateway to the Deep Roads.

"I lost many, too." Neria continued gently. "Friends, enemies..."

She trailed off, her eyes following his, down the road to that blackened door.

"I remember them all. And I rejoice in all those who survived."

As if to remind them of their most recent survivor, Shann whinnied and nosed his shoulder again, ready to be on the move.

"But sometimes, that doesn't make it feel any better."

Grimly, Alistair smiled, and Neria nodded back. Then they turned, and let Shann guide them toward the Deep Roads.


	20. Echoes in the Deep Roads

They met Oghren at Caridin's Cross. The dwarf stood, leaning on his battleaxe, broken stone and the remains of butchered darkspawn at his feet. He grinned when he saw them, seeming perfectly at home with the caked blood splattered across his armor, and the taint-stained corpses at his feet.

"Took you long enough," he said when they approached, "you almost missed all the fun."

"It's good to see you in one piece, my friend," Alistair said, clasping Oghren's hand in greeting, and saluting the crown soldiers who stood by him, before kneeling to sort through the mangled pile at their feet.

Shann stood beside him, picking through the wreckage with her own silver hooves, nudging at the debris. Alistair could not withhold a grimace as he remembered what Bhelen had told him.

"Is this?" He looked up at Oghren, pointing to the bloody rock and shattered stone at his feet.

"Yep. Whole squadron of golems passed through here an hour ago. We buried most of them in one of the smaller tunnels, but a few stragglers made it through."

"Golems?" Neria asked, her voice sharp with alarm. "Why on earth would golems attack us?"

"Use your senses," Oghren said, and Alistair knew he was referring to their Warden senses, not sight or smell.

Neria closed her eyes, and Alistair cast out his own senses as she did so. Grimly, the familiar throbbing in his head corroborated Bhelen's warning.

"It's tainted," Oghren said for the benefit of the crown soldiers near them.

"How is that possible?" Neria whispered, grimacing against the writhing nausea the tainted corpses around them induced.

Alistair held back a wince, knowing what he must say next.

"The Anvil of the Void has been rebuilt."

The shock on the faces around him was plainly written. Neria shook her head, her face contorting with anger, an anger he knew she felt towards Bhelen, and towards themselves.

"But we destroyed it."

"We destroyed it using the magic and steel of humans and elves, and, meaning no disrespect," he nodded at Oghren, "a dwarven outcast. We were hardly engineers about it, and whatever we did was apparently less than permanent."

He held up his hand to allay further questions. Without thinking, he rested his other hand on Shann's shoulder, feeling the halla's gentle presence in his mind, giving him strength.

_I've got to come to terms with this. We all do. _And this was not the place or the time to pick apart Bhelen's motives. He sighed, and continued.

"Regardless of how it happened, the Anvil has been overrun by darkspawn. Now the horde use it to craft golems of their own. Whether they do this from dwarves they find in the Deep Roads, or whether they've used their own kind, we don't know. But the golems have gone mad with the taint. They must be destroyed, with the rest of the darkspawn."

He turned to the Wardens and crown soldiers, grimacing as he remembered what Bhelen had told him at the palace.

"Be wary. The Deep Roads have changed. Bhelen also has news of a new force of darkspawn, cunning and intelligent. Darkspawn that talk."

"Talking darkspawn?" Lieutenant Basil repeated, sounding shocked. "I didn't think that was possible."

"It gets still worse. Bhelen believes that a new Broodmother has arisen near the Dead Trenches."

He turned to Neria.

"One more powerful than the one we encountered."

Whispers and murmurs followed this announcement, and the entire party was at grave risk of being overrun in confusion. Alistair shook his head. He felt no better prepared for having known what was coming than any of the soldiers now clustered before him. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back the headache that threatened there, trying for just a moment to drown out the ceaseless questions he could not answer.

In the end it was Shann who broke the mayhem, raising her head and trumpeting shrilly, her voice echoing off the stones in a beautiful but eerie call. One by one, the soldiers fell silent.

"Are we done chit-chatting?" Oghren grumbled, nodding in approval at the halla. "Let's get going, before they invent even more ways to stick a thorn in our sides."

Shann whuffed in apparent agreement, and led the way forward, stepping nimbly over the darkspawn corpses and down the road.

It was when they turned towards Bownammar that it happened. The dull air of the Deep Roads suddenly lit up with a wild reverberation. Directionless noise swirled around them, until it seemed the very stones at their feet were shaking from some great power. And over the top of the current a voice sang.

_First day we come, and catch everyone._


End file.
